Dum Spiro, Spero
by Chakram
Summary: Where there is life, there is hope. An AU exploration. Movieverse. Work in progress.
1. Chapter 1

Dum Spiro, Spero

Disclaimer: These characters don't belong to me and I'm certainly not making any money from them.

_Chapter 1_

V felt consciousness fade as he tried to tell Evey how she had moved him, touched him in a way that had nothing to do with her petite hands clutching at him. The image of her face, anguished and her eyes filled with tears followed him into darkness as his body went limp. He did not hear her cries of grief. He did not feel her drag him into the train and lever him onto a bier of explosives. He did not smell the roses she laid around him. He did not see her face Finch with head held high and quiet steel in her bearing. It was the jolt of the train car as it started down the track that finally roused him.

The smell of the roses, immediate and nearly overwhelming, helped him to focus. The track lightning overhead and the sensation of movement helped to identify his location.

_A Viking funeral, Evey? How fitting,_ V thought with a rush of affection. _I only wish…_

What did he wish? Was it truly for an end now, as he had told Evey? He flashed to her grief-stricken expression as she held his bleeding body, to her imploring look after her lips pressed against the frozen lips of his mask, to the soft gaze she turned on him as they danced. He knew with sudden certainty that she would have gone away with him just like she said.

The relief V had felt for his coming end suddenly mutated to other emotions. Anger at the lost opportunities and longing for a future that seemed impossible an hour before. It felt as though one more precious thing was being stripped from him by the men who had taken nearly every inch of him. Creedy's bullets were stealing life from him…life that might be spent with Evey.

These emotions infused his limbs with new life. The result was a small fraction of his full strength, but he managed to roll off the bier and onto floor of the train car. The pain of striking the floor nearly sent him back into unconsciousness but he vehemently fought the grey creeping in from the sides of his vision. Blood flowed anew as cuts that had already started to knit together re-opened.

_Faster, not much time_, V thought as he dragged himself to the doors.

It would only be a few more minutes before the train arrived under the Houses of Parliament. V managed to pull himself to his knees, disregarding the blood that was still dripping steadily. A breath, deep as his wounds would allow, and an awkward swing of his arm sent a fist crashing through the window in one of the doors. Another massive effort and he was on his feet, clutching the frame of the window which was still lined with shards of glass. The tunnel blurred past, occasionally marked by dark passages. A glance down the tunnel revealed an approaching platform, the last one before Parliament.

V pulled himself onto the window frame as best he could, ignoring the broken glass. As the platform seemed to fly past he tumbled from his precarious perch and struck the concrete floor, rolling several times and collecting a new set of injuries. He could feel ribs that were already damaged by bullets grinding against one another and open wounds splitting further. His body finally came to a stop just shy of a support column. Blackness crept up on him again, but he fought it off. The pain reminded him that he was still alive…there was still hope.

Allowing the pain to fill him, to ignite his nerves and charge his limbs, V staggered to his feet. He put his head down and stumbled toward the stairs. The entire platform seemed to suddenly tilt at an angle when he made it up the first few stairs, clutching at the railing. V realized it was he, not the room, which had tilted so dramatically. In fact, he was down on one knee, propped up on the same side with his hand and no idea how he came to be in that position.

As V sat there trying to puzzle out the sudden change in perspective with a brain that felt fogged over, he caught a glimpse of color by the hand supporting him. There, twined in the fingers of that hand, was a single rose. Astonishingly, improbably he had managed to hold onto it from the time he hit the floor of the train car to his current position kneeling on the stairs. The red color seemed to splash across his retinas, jump-starting his neurons and bringing his thoughts back into focus.

_You didn't deny yourself a peaceful rest just to die on the stairs of a tube station. Get up!_

V surged back to his feet, clutching the rose to his chest. He staggered up the stairs, mindless of the pain and continuing blood flow. He had just squeezed through a gap in the boards sealing the street entrance of the platform when the train collided with the barriers underneath Parliament and exploded.

The concussions rocked the streets and moments later a hot wind blew through the gaps in the boards. V felt a strange sensation as the wind pulled at his clothing and slipped in the openings of his mask. Almost like walking through the fire at Larkhill again, burning away his old self. He could hear the explosions still going in the distance, joined by the shrieks and pops of fireworks. His eyes closed and he listened for a moment. It sounded like victory, like cleansing, like hope.

V shook off his reverie and climbed to the street level. A swift searching look around identified the street names around him. He had many miles to go if he was to make it to his destination before he bled to death. The only chance would be to take a car. V spared a thought for the surveillance cameras as he limped over to a parked vehicle on the side of the road, then dismissed it.

_The one night of the year when being dressed in a cape and mask makes one inconspicuous,_ V thought with faint humor.

The buzzer rang insistently, as though someone were leaning against the button. The owner of the building grumbled at the strident sound as he slipped on his shoes and threw on a robe. Despite his advanced age, the man gave off an aura of vigor at odds with his exterior appearance. The collar length salt-and-pepper hair sticking up at odd angles only added to the kinetic impression.

"Keep your hair on! I'm coming!" he shouted as he paced down the hall toward the side door. The buzzer merely sounded again in reply.

Dr. John Sterling was a general practitioner with a family practice housed in the same building where he lived. The side door was for his special clinic patients, the ones that only came around after hours. The ones that didn't like questions and always paid in cash.

The old man paused at a table in the hall and withdrew a stun gun from one of the drawers. A moment later, and he was looking through the peephole at a black form which was still pressing the buzzer.

"Who is it?" he called through the door. "It's after midnight!"

" 'A walking shadow'," replied his late night visitor, his voice sounding strained.

"V?" Sterling breathed as he hurried to unlock the door. When he opened the door he was greeted by the sight of V leaning heavily against the door frame, a small pool of blood at his feet. He barely got the door completely open before V suddenly pitched forward, almost taking the other man to the ground with him. Sterling managed to grab a handful of V's tunic as he fell and kept the injured man's head from striking the tile in the entryway. A quick inspection, made difficult by the black clothing, revealed the poor condition of his newest patient.

"Bloody hell, man," Sterling found himself saying as he inspected the wounds. "You don't do anything by half measures, do you?"

V could only slump in reply as he felt himself slipping away again.

Quote from:

She should have died hereafter;  
There would have been a time for such a word.--  
To-morrow, and to-morrow, and to-morrow,  
Creeps in this petty pace from day to day,  
To the last syllable of recorded time;  
And all our yesterdays have lighted fools  
The way to dusty death. Out, out, brief candle!  
Life's but a walking shadow; a poor player,  
That struts and frets his hour upon the stage,  
And then is heard no more: it is a tale  
Told by an idiot, full of sound and fury,  
Signifying nothing.

--Macbeth

_Macbeth_, Act V, Scene 5

A/N: The _V for Vendetta_ film indicates that V was terribly burned in the fires at Larkhill. I don't think it is stated as blatantly in the graphic novel, but it is still probable V would have sustained severe burns given the explosions started in his room. V possesses superhuman speed, strength and reflexes, but it's extremely unlikely he could have survived burns of that severity without help (the fluid loss alone would have done him in). Even with some help, I doubt he would have made it without his special physiology. It's due to this endurance that I think he would be able to carry on long after a normal person would have gone into shock or died from blood loss. These musings helped shape the premise of this story. Also, while I enjoyed the richness of the storyline and the characters of the graphic novel, this is obviously set in the movie-verse.


	2. Chapter 2

Dum Spiro, Spero

Disclaimer: These characters don't belong to me and I'm certainly not making any money from them.

_Chapter 2_

The air carried an acrid tang from the black smoke now rising from the ruins of the House of Parliament. Sirens from emergency vehicles still sounded in the distance. Occasionally a military vehicle rumbled down the streets toward the wreckage.

Evey had no idea how long she and Finch had been standing on that balcony, but a faint light was starting to appear in the eastern sky. She could see people walking back to their homes when she peered over the wall marking the balcony's edge. Every person held a Guy Fawkes mask in their hands and most still wore the black capes. The mood seemed to be somber, but the people walked with their heads held high.

Evey turned to look at Finch. He had settled on a stone bench, his back to the smoking ruins. She noticed he held his Norsefire badge his hands, and had a pensive look on his face. Finch seemed to feel her gaze and looked back at her suddenly.

"What do you suppose they will do now?" Evey asked him when he locked eyes with her. Confusion flashed through his eyes briefly before he looked back down at the badge. He gave a weary sigh.

"Most likely they're already scrambling for the leftovers," Finch replied. "If Creedy and Sutler are dead, someone will try to step in and take over."

Evey shivered a little from the sudden chill she felt. Though she had already known the answer, she hoped Finch might be able to reassure her.

"Who do you think it will be?" Evey asked. From the set of Finch's shoulders, she could tell this was the question that had been preying on him for the last few hours.

"Probably one of the cabinet members," he replied. "Dascomb certainly has the nerve for it, but I think he prefers to work behind the scenes. Etheridge and Heyer are spineless little lackeys, but Heyer has been showing some ambition lately."

"Whoever it is, it would have to be someone the military would listen to," Finch continued as he stood up from the bench and walked over beside Evey. "If you control the military, you have the means to crush the people again."

Evey felt sudden tears of frustration prickling at the corners of her eyes. All of it, V's sacrifice, the rousing of the people, everything would be in vain if nothing changed. If Finch was right, if the same sort of men stepped in to fill the gaps left by the men V killed, nothing _would_ change.

As the silence following his statement lengthened, Evey turned to look down at the people moving below. She knew those people had shown unity and resolve by attending the destruction of Parliament. At that moment, they all probably felt invincible. The military didn't slaughter them and the Fingermen didn't black-bag all of them. But Evey knew that if the Fingermen did start to take large numbers of people or if the military started mowing them down with bullets, the resolve would crumble. Oh, people would resist at first. People like her parents. They would stand bravely in front of tanks or attack the Fingermen with sticks and rocks. But eventually the personal costs would rise too high and resistance would melt back into fear.

They needed someone to step up and re-take control, so that it might be ceded back to the people without bloodshed. Someone the military would respect, but that the people would also respect. Evey looked at Finch again with a thoughtful expression. He had neglected to mention the last member of the cabinet.

"What about you, Mr. Finch?" she asked him directly. Finch's shoulders stiffened at the question.

"What about me, Miss Hammond?" he replied. Finch's demeanor was suddenly one of profound discomfort. Despite his decision to let the train go along its course, he couldn't help but feel a bit like a traitor. But was it really treason if you no longer believed in the ideas set forth by the party? Evey's question illuminated the possibility of making a significant change, if he was willing to leave behind 27 years of loyal service. Or would he be leaving it behind? Perhaps this was the next logical step for a man that strove for justice.

"I believe you're a good man. I don't think you believe things should carry on as they did before or you would have shot me before I pulled that lever," Evey told him levelly. Finch found himself staring at her after this blunt statement, faintly surprised by the directness of it. "This is the same thing. Just bigger."

She returned his stare for a moment then turned back to the skyline.

A/N: Thank you all for all the encouraging reviews! Next up: more V!

A/N2: I'm currently looking for a beta reader who is familiar with the V for Vendetta movie and graphic novel, and versed writing techniques (grammar, story construction, etc.). I'm looking for someone who is willing to give constructive criticism. Please contact me if you are interested!


	3. Chapter 3

Dum Spiro, Spero

Warning: This chapter has somewhat graphic descriptions of treatment of bullet wounds, fractures, etc. I don't think it warrants a jump up to the M rating, but if anyone disagrees let me know and I'll reconsider changing the rating.

Disclaimer: These characters don't belong to me and I'm certainly not making any money from them.

_Chapter 3_

Sterling eased his patient down to the floor. He stepped over him, taking care not to slip in the blood, and slapped the intercom button. "Helen! Wake up the kids and get yourselves down to the side door."

There was a moment's pause, and then an acknowledgement was heard. Soft noises from shuffling feet and opening doors could be heard echoing down the hallway. Sterling turned back to the man lying on the floor. He crouched down and unclasped his cloak. Some awkward shifting and the garment was free from its owner. Sterling tossed the heavy, damp cloak behind him into the hall and starting looking for the closure to V's jacket. Pounding steps alerted him to the arrival of two young men and a young woman. Following at a slower, but no less urgent pace, was an elderly woman.

The young people clustered together behind Sterling, staring at the bleeding stranger on the floor. When the older woman made it to the group and got a good look at V, her gasp was loud enough to echo down the hall. Sterling met Helen's shocked gaze for moment and then began issuing commands.

"Sarah, run and get the gurney," Sterling ordered. "Helen, get the operating room ready for our new guest. Tommy and Jacob, get ready to help lift him onto the gurney."

Everyone scattered to their various tasks. The young men positioned themselves at V's shoulders and feet in preparation for lifting him. Sterling continued to unfasten V's jacket. He finally got it unzipped as Sarah came jogging down the hall, pushing the gurney in front of her. She rolled it to a stop as close to V as possible, and then stepped around to help lift him. Sterling nodded and all four lifted together. They placed V carefully on the gurney.

"Roll him down to the operating room and be quick about it!" Sterling told them. He shut and locked the side door, and swiftly followed the others down the hall. The gurney was directed down another hallway and into a room gleaming with stainless steel and white walls.

"Alright, let's get him on the table," Sterling told the young people. "Then I have some other work for you."

"Grandfather, who is he?" Jacob asked hesitantly. Tommy and Sarah both looked to their grandfather at this question.

"Don't you worry about it," Sterling leveled scowl at him as he replied. "Now lift!"

The group lifted the limp form of V onto the operating table. As Sterling went to place V's dangling arm onto the table he noticed for the first time a rose clutched in his hand. The tight hold had crushed the lower half of the stem and the top half broke away when Sterling tried to pull it out of V's grip. Helen's brow furrowed as she sighted the rose and she raised her eyes to Sterling's gaze. He gave a minute shrug and laid the rose on the countertop behind him. The others were patiently awaiting his next orders.

"Alright, your grandmother and I can take it from here," Sterling told his grandchildren. "I want you all to get that blood cleaned off you, and then I have some very important jobs for you."

As Sterling spoke he started to examine V, trying to find where all the bleeding was originating. V's jacket was riddled with what appeared to be bullet holes, but only a few seemed to have corresponding wounds.

"Sarah, I want you to clean up all the blood outside," he began. "Then clean up all the blood in the hall and entranceway. Bag that cloak while you're at it, and put it in the laundry room."

Sarah nodded and left immediately.

"Jacob, I want you and Tommy to get rid of that car parked in the alley," Sterling continued. "Tommy, you follow Jacob on the moped so you'll have a way back. Wear your hooded shirts and cover your faces."

The young men looked at each other with wide eyes, before nodding solemnly at their grandfather. After a short pause, they turned and followed their sister out of the room.

Sterling turned toward Helen and opened his mouth to ask for the clothing shears. She slapped a pair into his hand before he got a word out and picked up a second pair for herself. With a wry look at her, Sterling turned his attention to cutting along the sleeves of V's jacket. Helen got to work removing V's boots and socks, and cutting off his trousers.

After both sleeves had been cut, Sterling started to peel the tatters of the jacket away from V's torso and arms. The fabric pulled wetly and stuck to several wounds. Sterling frowned at the faint whistling sound that could be heard when the jacket pulled away. Frothy red blood bubbled from one of the wounds. Sterling cursed and set to cutting away the remaining layers of fabric so he could get to the sucking chest wound.

"Helen, are any of those wounds that can't wait?" he asked his wife.

"I don't see any major bleeding, love," she replied. "They can probably wait."

"Alright, let's get a line in him," he said. "Hang some saline and whole blood, and get ready to help me with this."

She went about her work with quick efficiency while he finished cutting off the clothing, and removed V's gloves, mask and wig. The scarred flesh revealed under the clothing would have been shocking if they hadn't seen it before. Sterling spared a look at V's face, noting the slack expression, and returned to the wounds in his torso. Helen finished up and stepped back to Sterling's side.

"Here, put your hand over this while I scrub and glove, dearest," Sterling told his wife. She nodded, and placed her gloved hand over the wound. The whistling sound immediately quieted. Sterling noted with admiration she was already dressed in sterile garments in addition to the gloves. He stepped over to the sink, shucking his soiled robe as he went. A quick, but thorough, scrub and some sterile garments ensured he was ready for surgery. After taking a deep breath, Sterling walked back to V's side and started working to save his life.

Several hours later:

John Sterling yawned and stretched, shifting in the chair at V's bedside. His patient had been out of surgery for about an hour, and Sterling wanted to keep an eye on him for a little while. The final tally of injuries included eight bullet wounds, four of which were on V's torso. The other four were on his extremities. The sucking chest wound had been the most immediate concern, but there were two abdominal wounds that had nicked the bowel. Sterling hoped he managed to repair all the tears and clean the body cavity well enough, or infection might set in. V also had various fractures, particularly of the ribs, and more lacerations and contusions than Sterling bothered to count.

Sterling had sent Helen and the grandchildren to bed. The long hours, combined with lack of sleep, had taken their toll on the group. He had managed to keep the young people out of the operating room while he was working on V by relaying instructions through Helen. They didn't need to know who was actually lying on the operating table. It was dangerous knowledge, and Sterling didn't think his patient would appreciate being stared at by the kids.

_Kids_, he thought wryly. _More like adults now. I wouldn't send children to dump a stolen car._

A sudden movement from the bed caught Sterling's attention. V's body shuddered and twitched. The doctor frowned and turned his attention to the health monitors. V's breathing and heart rates started to climb rapidly. Sterling quickly stood and started to walk around the bed so he could administer a sedative. V's eyes suddenly snapped open and he sat bolt upright. Sterling took a step back in shock. He was astonished V was awake, much less capable of sitting up.

V's eyes darted around the room as he took in his surroundings. He started as he saw Sterling standing beside the bed. V slid sideways off the bed, keeping Sterling in view as he did. His retreat was hindered by a tangle of bedclothes, sensor wires and IV tubing. V started to pull off wires and bedclothes in a swift, methodical fashion at odds with his somewhat panicked eyes.

"V…V, listen to me," Sterling soothed, holding his hands up to the man crouched on the floor, now pulling at his IV. "You're safe here; there's nothing to be afraid of."

V didn't seem to hear the entreaties from the older man. He finally jerked out the IV, causing blood to pulse from the now open artery. He then made as though to rise and bolt, eyes flitting around the room. Sterling knew that V didn't really see him there, or at least didn't recognize him. The memory of a similar reaction two decades ago nudged at Sterling's mind. The man had exhibited the same mixture of precise action and contained panic. The situation could spiral out of control at any moment. Sterling's left wrist twinged with suddenly-remembered pain. It was time for tougher measures.

"William! Are you paying attention to me?" Sterling demanded loudly. V paused his visual searching and seemed to truly see Sterling for the time. "You're never to going to hear the end of the story if you don't lie back down."

For a moment the doctor thought he might have made a grave miscalculation as V crouched lower at the harsh tone. Then, remarkably, V's body slowly started to relax. His posture straightened slightly and his hands unclenched as he continued to look at the doctor. Sterling could see comprehension was gradually filtering to V's conscious mind, but vague recognition would be good enough for now.

"Now you listen to me, young man," Sterling growled at him. "I haven't spent the last twelve hours putting you back together just so you can go and undo it all by falling arse over teakettle and taking half the room with you! You get back on that bed right now."

Sterling put a stern look on his face and planted his hands on his hips. He also held his breath as V continued to study his face for long moments. V finally looked down and gingerly seated himself on the edge of the bed. After a moment's hesitation, he swung his legs on to the bed and lay down. Sterling watched him for another minute to make sure he wasn't about to run off, and then turned toward the supplies on the counter. He blew out the breath he had been holding as he snapped on a pair of latex gloves and opened a package of sterile wipes.

V was watching him again as he approached the hospital bed. Sterling toed aside some of the boxes and instruments that had fallen on the floor, and righted the IV unit. He quickly pulled a few more supplies from a small cabinet beside the bed and set about re-inserting the IV. A new needle replaced the one that had been on the floor. The bag of saline was connected to the new needle. V didn't say anything during the procedures. He didn't flinch when Sterling took his arm and cleaned the site of the IV stick. Even an examination of his various wound and fracture sites failed to elicit a reaction. It was after Sterling stripped off his gloves and started to put things back into place that V spoke.

"Dr. Sterling," he said quietly. Sterling nearly dropped the handful of instruments he was putting on a tray to take for sterilization. As he turned to face V, the other man spoke again. "Thank you. I cannot imagine the inconvenience I must have caused you."

"How about you letting me worry about that?" Sterling asked him rhetorically as he placed the instruments on the tray and strode over to V's bedside. "Back with us now, eh? Do you know where you are?"

"I would have to assume we are somewhere in your clinic," V replied as he took in his surroundings. His gaze lingered on the bland prints hanging on the wall. "I can't imagine your home would contain such, ah, mundane artwork."

Sterling followed his gaze and let out a bark of laughter. "You can say it's rubbish, young man. I won't be offended. But you're wrong; this is my home."

V met his gaze at that statement and tilted his head in inquiry.

"My home, this clinic, the general practice…they're all one in the same now," he explained. V nodded thoughtfully, and returned to looking around the room. Sterling noticed his body seemed to be slowly sinking down into the bed in exhaustion.

"I don't think you worsened any of your injuries just now, but I want you to get some rest," Sterling told V as the doctor reached for the vial of an IV sedative. "Not much holding you together right now but sutures, staples and bandages."

"Please, Dr. Sterling, before you give me that. Would you answer one question?" V asked with sudden urgency. Sterling looked up from the syringe he had just filled with the sedative.

"Of course, V," he replied as he lowered the syringe. "What is it?"

"The Houses of Parliament," V said. "Were they destroyed?"

"Yes," Sterling replied as he inserted the syringe into the IV. "And from what I hear it was spectacular. Most of London seemed to be there."

V's body seemed to lose all tension then, though Sterling was hard pressed to say if it was from the sedative or the conversation. V's eyes fluttered closed after a few minutes and he fell into a deep sleep.

_End of Chapter 3_

A/N: Once again, thank you for all the reviews. They are most definitely encouraging and let me know what elements of the story are working. Also, I just wanted to thank everyone who offered their services as beta readers. I'd like to keep a list of everyone who offered in case my other betas are unavailable.

A/N2: Dr. Sterling and his family are original characters. I wasn't satisfied with the idea that V could have survived without any immediate medical help after Larkhill. There will be more explanation about how these two met in later chapters. But I think we'll be heading back to Evey in the upcoming chapter.


	4. Chapter 4

Dum Spiro, Spero

Disclaimer: These characters don't belong to me and I'm certainly not making any money from them.

_Chapter 4_

Finch rode the lift from the roof down to the first floor of the building. The doors opened revealing a dusty lobby filled with old furniture, boxes, papers and rubbish of all kinds. The thick layer of dust indicated the place hadn't been disturbed for months or years. The glass windows and doors of the main entrance were boarded shut. A quick look around revealed a windowless side door leading to the outside. Finch pushed the door open, finding himself in a side alley. The door banged shut behind him, automatically locking. Finch strode down the alley toward the street.

Finch switched on his mobile phone as he stepped onto the deserted sidewalk. It had been turned off since the previous evening when he entered the Underground. Hopefully, Dominic would be able to pick him up and drive him to the headquarters of the Nose. Finch started walking towards headquarters as he began to punch in the Detective Sergeant's number. The phone chirped insistently in his hand before he completed dialing. The chirps indicated he had a priority message in his voicemail. Finch cleared the partial number on the screen and instead dialed the code for the voicemail.

An emotionless female voice informed him he had thirteen priority messages in his mailbox. Finch sighed and considered simply turning the phone off again. With a slight shake of his head he pressed the number to play the messages.

"This is a reminder. High Chancellor Adam Sutler will be giving an address at 11:00 p.m. this evening. Viewing is mandatory. Non-compliance constitutes a violation of the Articles of Allegiance."

"Chief, where are you? I've got something I need to talk to you about. It's very important. Please call me when you get this."

"Chief, it's me again. Listen, you're startin' to make me nervous. Things are a mess at headquarters. Word is the chancellor and Creedy are missing, and no one can get ahold of you. Please get back to me."

"Chief, it's Dominic again. Where the hell are you?"

Finch erased the rest of the messages and dialed the number for Dominic's mobile. The younger man picked up on the second ring.

"Chief, is that you?" he asked anxiously.

"Yeah, it's me Dom," Finch replied. He heard Dominic blow out a gusty breath.

"Christ, man, where you been?" Dominic demanded. "It's been a madhouse here all morning."

"Listen, I need a ride," Finch said. "I'll explain on the way to headquarters."

"Alright, where are you?" Dominic asked. Finch gave him the names of the streets forming the intersection where he had stopped walking.

"I'll be there in about fifteen minutes," Dominic said. "And chief?"

"Yeah?"

"It's good to hear your voice. When I couldn't reach you, I thought maybe you'd actually found him," Dominic said quietly. Finch understood the implication. _Found him and got in his way_.

"Just come and get me Dominic," Finch said shortly. He hung up when Dominic acknowledged he was on his way.

Finch stared at the phone for a moment longer before he tucked it back in his coat pocket. The wait ahead seemed interminable given the creeping exhaustion that made his limbs feel like lead and his mind like muddy water. Leaning against a light pole only increased the feeling of being asleep on his feet. Harsh whispering voices on the sidewalk behind him jolted him to full alertness.

"He's a cop, I'm telling you!" a low male voice muttered. Finch turned and pinned the speaker with a look. It was a young man, in his mid-twenties, dressed in jeans and a leather jacket. He was one of a group of four other people. Two men and two women, all appearing to be the same approximate age as the speaker. All held familiar masks, wigs, cloaks and hats. They stood clustered together about thirty feet from the Chief Inspector. There was more furious whispering when Finch turned to look at them.

"How can you say that after what's happened?" the man demanded, loud enough that Finch could hear him clearly. "We don't need the likes of him around here! Didn't we say what we'd do if any cop or Fingerman tried to come back here?"

"Ryan, please…let's just keep walking," one of the young women said. "He's not bothering anyone over there."

"He's botherin' me," Ryan said, glaring at the woman. "I don't like him being here."

Finch turned his body slightly to hide the movement of his hand as he slid it into his coat pocket. His pistol was still there, the safety engaged. Finch waited to see what the group was going to do.

"Hey pal, we don't want you here," Ryan said, striding toward Finch suddenly. The group followed at a slower pace, appearing uncertain.

"I'm just waiting for a ride," Finch told the young man as he came walking up to the inspector. Finch wrapped his hand more firmly around the pistol in his coat pocket. "Why don't you just go on about your business?"

Ryan pulled up five feet away from the detective and planted his fists on his waist, jutting out his jaw. Finch imagined the young man thought the pose made him look tough, when in actuality he looked more a like a petulant child denied a favorite treat.

"Oh, is that it? 'Go on about your business?' Maybe no one's told you, but I don't have to take orders from flatfoots like you anymore!" Ryan said aggressively. "It's anarchy now. We do what we like!"

The others appeared emboldened by the tough talk and walked up to flank Ryan. Finch spared a thought for Dominic, hoping the detective was driving at his usual breakneck speed. He turned fully toward the group, keeping his hand in his pocket.

"And just what is it you'd like?" Finch asked. "If you want me to leave, that wish will be granted any moment now. If you're trying to start a fight, go look somewhere else."

Finch's calm manner seems to take some of the steam out of the group. They had been expecting a bluster of bravado, threats of arrest or even for Finch to draw his gun. The group now looked a little sheepish. Ryan suddenly puffed his chest back up like a strutting rooster and took another step toward Finch.

"What we'd like is for the cops to stay away from here," Ryan said. He looked on the verge of poking a finger in Finch's chest. Finch's head, already thudding with a dull headache from the lack of sleep, began to throb. Knowing that it would provoke the young man, and not really caring, Finch straightened up and looked him right in the eye.

"I'll be sure to put that in the suggestion box when I get back to headquarters," he told Ryan. The young man's brow furrowed while he processed that comment, then his jaw tightened with anger. He took a third step toward Finch, clenching his fists. Finch readied himself for a physical confrontation.

Displaying impeccable timing, a police siren sounded and a car screeched to a halt beside Finch. Ryan's friends looked frightened at the sudden appearance of the cruiser. Dominic poked his head out the window, eyes quickly taking in the scene. He opened his door and stood.

"You alright, Chief?" he asked, hand dropping casually to the pistol at his waist. At the word Chief even Ryan seemed to deflate. He dropped his eyes from Finch's steady stare and took a step back. Finch didn't look from away the young man when he answered Dominic.

"It's fine," Finch replied. "Let's go."

Finch stepped around the car and got in. The group watched him go with varying expressions of fear and distrust. Dominic seated himself and closed his door. He put the car in drive and peeled off with his usual acceleration.

"What was that all about?" he asked Finch as they drove off. Finch glanced at him and shook his head slightly.

"I'm not sure yet," Finch told him. "Let's just get back to headquarters."

The Shadow Gallery:

Evey walked slowly back into the Gallery. She had waited a few minutes after Finch left before summoning the lift. The increasing light of the morning made her feel exposed on the balcony. With one last look at the fires still burning at Parliament, she had left the roof and smoky air behind. When the lift arrived in the basement Evey had felt a reluctance to push the door open to V's home…her home now. She finally swallowed her trepidation and opened the heavy wooden door.

The Gallery spread out before her, arranged as it had always been in the time Evey had known of it. Only now there was a curious stillness to the air, as if some vital energy had been sucked out of the space. Evey noted the mirrored ball was still turning above the now-silent jukebox. She turned away before the sob lurking in her chest could loose itself. Attempting to distract herself, Evey approached V's dressing room. The place looked like a theater's dressing room for a stage actor from the late 1800's

Evey stepped over to V's dressing table. She noted that the vanity mirror was missing the glass. As she pondered the broken mirror, she let her fingers softly flit over the items on the vanity. Comb, brush, wig stand, glass bottles and cloth were traced by her fingertips. She caught a glimpse of black fabric out of the corner of her eye. Set back a bit from a full-length mirror was a large wardrobe, one door slightly ajar. A fold of fabric could be glimpsed through the opening. Evey opened the heavy doors of the old, well-preserved wardrobe. Neat rows of black jackets, trousers and cloaks met her eyes. A shelf above her head was the resting place for several black hats. The floor was home to a dozen pairs of fine leather boots.

Everything was arranged precisely, grouped together with identical garments, except for a single cloak. It hung on the end of the bar, removed from all the other clothing. Curious, Evey pulled the cloak off its hanger and brought it into the light to examine it. Physically, it looked no different from the cloaks still hanging in the wardrobe. But when she brought the cloak closer to her face to look at it more carefully she caught the scent of the fabric. Rainwater and sweat and black tea. Evey's hands began to tremble as she realized what she held.

_He kept it…like this? Unwashed and separate? Why?_ She thought.

It was the same cloak V wrapped around her the night of her release from imprisonment. When she finally dropped her arms, and turned back to him, he held the cloak open. Evey had walked toward him, feeling as if the present moment wasn't quite real. When she reached him he draped the cloak around her shivering body and ushered her back toward the lift. Evey remembered wondering at the few little damp spots on V's jacket, just under the bottom edge of the mask. It seemed odd that he would only get wet there, especially since he wasn't standing in the rain. Water would only land there if the inside of the mask was wet. Evey forgot about the damp spots when the lift shuddered to life and took them down.

He had made her tea, which her unsteady hands spilled. Sweating and chilled, and not entirely well, she simply told him she wanted to bathe and sleep. Evey handed the cloak back to V when he helped her to the bathroom and started the water for her. He carefully folded the cloak and, making sure she didn't need his help, left her to her privacy. Evey remembered thinking the courtesy was a little ridiculous considering he had obviously seen her unclothed before. This thought had caused conflicting feelings to well up, and Evey could barely steady herself enough to turn off the water taps. Only after rationalizing that it was the man Rossiter that had treated her so callously was Evey able to quiet her thoughts and slide into the warm water.

The rush of the memories, combined with the slowly revolving lights from the mirrored ball and the scent of the cloak sent Evey to her knees. The emotions she had been holding back since she sent the train on its inevitable course overwhelmed her. She buried her face in the cloak and began to sob.

_End of Chapter 4_

A/N: I felt Evey needed to mourn a bit before she does anything else.

A/N2: Thanks again for all the reviews! I've had several questions about Dr. Sterling calling V by the name "William" and also "young man". I ask that you bear with me; the history behind these names will be revealed. And no, it's not a reference to William Rookwood (whom I completely forgot about when I wrote that part). Also, the description of V's appearance was deliberately sparse in the last chapter. More on that later.


	5. Chapter 5

Dum Spiro, Spero

Warning: This chapter has graphic descriptions of treatment of burns and references to male anatomy. Rating is now going up to M.

Disclaimer: These characters don't belong to me and I'm certainly not making any money from them.

_Chapter 5_

"And how's the patient?" Helen asked as she handed Dr. Sterling a cup of tea. He took it and settled himself at the kitchen table.

"Sleeping now. He had his usual cheery awakening earlier," Sterling told her with a wink. She immediately looked concerned, checking him for signs of injury. He laughed, waving off the inspection.

"I know enough to stay out of the way by now, my dear," he teased. Helen smiled at that, and pushed a plate of toast toward him. The young people were still sleeping, tired from their nocturnal work. Sterling was just taking his first break after sedating V.

"He knows where he is now. I don't think you need to worry about peeking in the door," Sterling told her.

"I wasn't the one who ended up with a broken wrist, love," she replied archly. He laughed, and pulled her hand to his lips, kissing it.

"No, 'twas you that tamed the beast," Sterling proclaimed. She gave him a wave of the hand that clearly said 'oh, go on!' while just the faintest trace of pink graced her cheeks. As she set a plate of breakfast before him, Sterling found himself falling back into memories he hadn't thought about in years.

Twenty years ago, road to Larkhill Detention Center:

Dr. John Sterling removed one hand from the steering wheel so he could rub his eyes. They felt dry and gritty from lack of sleep. The only effect the rubbing had was to make them even more red and irritated than before. Dr. Sterling shook his head at his own foolishness and put the hand back on the steering wheel. He cast a baleful look at the digital clock on the radio which read 12:37 a.m. The brightness of the glowing green numbers seemed to mock his own lack of energy. Sterling punched a button on the radio's control panel, switching to the DCD already in the player. Soft jazz filled the cabin of the medical van, gradually soothing away some of the doctor's aggravation.

It had been a long ride from London. Nearly ninety miles and over two hours spent on the road. Sterling had exited the M3 several miles ago and was now bumping along a rutted asphalt road. He hadn't seen another vehicle for over a half an hour. A faint mist crept along the road, illuminated by the headlights and scattering in the van's wake. Sterling supposed the green countryside was probably quite lovely in the light of day, but the darkness cloaked any verdant delights the landscape had to offer.

_Why the hell am I out in here in the first place?_ Sterling wondered. _I could be at home right now, cuddled up in a warm bed with Helen. What in the world is so important it couldn't wait until morning?_

The doctor had received an urgent phone call from a Dr. Diana Stanton at the Larkhill Detention Center. Evidently she required the opinion of another expert immunologist. Dr. Sterling had protested the expert label. When asked how she came across his name she impatiently cited a paper he had published three years prior. He explained the work had come about from observation of patients he had seen during his tenure in Emergency Medicine. After a short pause, she seemed to decide it didn't matter and asked for a consultation again.

Dr. Sterling tried to press for details about the matter he would be consulted on, but Dr. Stanton became evasive. She only would say that a fresh pair of eyes might help. When he politely declined the request and hung up the phone, it rang almost immediately. A check of the caller identification screen on the phone revealed **Official Government Communication**. Sterling nearly dropped the handset in surprise. When he answered, a stern male voice instructed him to comply with Dr. Stanton's request. There was a click and Dr. Stanton started talking again as if they'd never been interrupted. She told him to drive out to the facility at Larkhill immediately. Sterling had no choice but to acquiesce.

That left him driving down this shoddy road at nearly one in the morning in the dark. Only it wasn't as dark as it been a few moments ago. Sterling could see a faint orange glow on the horizon. It was indistinct and wavering, as if the light source was moving and changing. The thin fog hindered attempts at identification. A brilliant flare of light made him realize he was looking at a fire burning in the distance, with explosions. Sterling was so preoccupied with the watching the fire in the distance that he nearly missed the figure standing in the middle of the road.

The doctor jammed his foot on the brake pedal, jerking the steering wheel to the left. The van fishtailed in protest on the damp pavement, the tires squealing and slipping. Sterling barked out a curse when the van bucked as it went off the road. The van slid to a stop in the gravel and dirt shoulder, now at a 45 degree angle to the line of the road. Sterling sat gripping the steering wheel, willing his heart to stop racing. The headlights, now angling across the road and pointed somewhat upward, still illuminated the figure. It hadn't moved since Sterling first saw it.

Peering through the glass of the windshield revealed the figure to be a man. The fifty feet separating van and figure made the identification of details difficult but even from that distance Sterling could see the man was horrifically burned. After a quick self-inventory to make sure he himself was not injured by his sudden stop, the doctor exited the van. He began walking toward the man in road.

Each step closer to the man further revealed the extent of his injuries. The man was naked, his clothing apparently consumed in the same conflagration that had caused his injuries. There didn't seem to be a single place on his skin that wasn't burned to some degree. The harsh off-set beams of the headlights threw shadows that emphasized every blister, break and crater in the man's skin. Dr. Sterling automatically pulled on a pair of latex gloves from a pouch in his coat pocket.

The man seemed oblivious to the doctor's approach. He was standing with his head tipped to the sky and his arms out slightly from his sides. The palms of his hands faced upward. He was the very picture of a man enjoying the feel of the soft mist in the air. A chilly breeze swirled up just as Sterling reached him.

" 'Blow, blow, thou winter wind, Thou art not so unkind…' " came a raspy whisper from the man. After a last tilt of his head toward the night sky, the man suddenly crumpled to the ground. Sterling tried belatedly to catch the man, but was too slow. The man struck the pavement with a horrible wet sound and lay still.

Sterling hastily kneeled beside the man and carefully turned him on his back. The doctor winced to himself every time he touched that scorched flesh, imagining the further damage even his light touches were doing. A quick inspection revealed the burned man was still breathing and had a steady, if faint, heartbeat. An attempt to check pupil reactivity revealed burns on the surface of the corneas. It was possible the man hadn't reacted to the approaching vehicle because he couldn't see it. As he was running through the man's vital signs Sterling remembered the damp, dirty asphalt he was laying on. He would have to get the man on a sterile surface immediately.

After arranging the man so that his airway was open, Sterling dashed back to the van. He jerked open the back door and climbed in. The back compartment bore a passing resemblance to an ambulance, with shelves of supplies and basic medical equipment filling one side and a narrow bed stretching across the other side. The van functioned as a mobile clinic for the doctor, who made occasional house calls. Unfortunately, the bed was permanently affixed to the wall of the van and wouldn't serve as a stretcher. Sterling rummaged around, wishing he had a long spine board or even a simple stretcher to put the man on. He started looking for a clean sheet of plastic or a simple cloth sheet, when a black object wrapped in plastic on the bottom shelf caught his eye. Dr. Sterling tucked the package under his arm and jumped out of the van.

He hurried back to the prone figure, ripping the clear plastic off the package as he went. He unrolled the black body bag beside the man and unzipped it. He had placed the bag in the van two years ago, with the idea that it was better to be prepared than caught short, and promptly forgot about it. He carefully pulled the man up onto his side and dragged the bag closer. A bit of careful maneuvering had the man laying flat on his back in the bag. Sterling zipped the bag two-thirds of the way closed, and stepped around to grab the nylon handles sewn into the ends of the bag. Sterling began to drag the bag back toward the van. The unconscious man didn't react to any of the less-then-gentle handling.

"I know it's a bit morbid, my friend," puffed Sterling as he pulled the bag. "But trust me, I won't be zipping that bag all the way up anytime soon."

After having to stop once to catch his breath, Sterling made it to the back of the van. He propped the man's upper body at the back entrance and climbed into the van. With a monumental effort he managed to pull the man onto the floor of the van. A short rest, then another exertion and the man was placed on the bed. Sterling decided to leave him in the bag rather than touch his wounds again. He unzipped the bag completely and pushed the flaps to the sides. The doctor stripped off his dirtied gloves and started pulling supplies from the shelves. After assembling a pile, he put on a fresh pair of gloves and starting working on his patient.

Another check of his vitals indicated no change. The man seemed to be breathing well enough on his own, so Sterling merely placed an oxygen mask on his face rather than intubate him. An IV was placed in a blood vessel on the inner side of his upper right arm. The flesh on his hands and forearms was too badly burned to make IV placement there practical. Lactated Ringer solution was attached to the IV to help replenish the man's massive fluid loss. The doctor carefully placed electrodes on the least burned flesh and attached wires from a small digital device to them to monitor the man's life signs. After checking to be certain the vitals were steady, Sterling turned his attention to the man's skin.

The man's body was covered in first-, second- and third-degree burns. In places it looked white and paper dry, and in others it was red and oozing. Scorch marks appeared here and there, and little bits of burned clothing stuck in the flesh. The worst damage appeared to be his hands, lower legs and torso. The majority of the third-degree burns were present in these areas. The rest of the front of the man's body was marked with second-degree burns. Leveraging the man up and peering beneath him revealed mostly first- and second-degree burns on the posterior side of his body. Sterling could see some of the blisters had burst from the weight of the man's body bearing down on them. He laid the man back down and inspected his face.

The burns weren't quite as severe on his face as the ones on his hands, but they would still leave terrible scars if the man lived. All hair, if he had previously had any, had been burned away. It was his eyes that most concerned Dr. Sterling. A second examination revealed the corneal burns he had first diagnosed. The doctor started flushing the eyes with a saline solution, catching the run-off liquid with a sterile towel. The man started to tremble when the solution poured across the surface of his eyes. Dr. Sterling stopped immediately, looking at the patient as the tremor progressed into full-blown shuddering. If the man was waking up he would be in unimaginable pain.

Sterling set aside the flushing solution and reached for a shock-proof box containing vials of liquid medicines. He pulled out a vial of morphine and drew a dose from it with a syringe. The dose was immediately added to the IV line, and the man's shaking subsided. The doctor added a second medication that would help stave off the inevitable swelling. After disposing of the syringes, he returned to irrigating the man's eyes. Satisfied that no debris was present in them, Sterling added antibiotic droplets and laid saline-soaked dressings across the man's eyes. He put a layer of saline-soaked non-adhesive bandages across the front of the man's body. He knew what the man really needed was cleaning and debridement of the burns, and the application of antibiotic ointment, but the van's supplies were inadequate to the magnitude of the man's injuries. He needed to go to a hospital immediately.

After monitoring his patient's vitals for several minutes, while simultaneously clearing up packages from the supplies he used, Sterling found himself convinced the man was stable for the moment. It was time to move. Sterling secured the man as best he could with a couple of straps loosely wrapped across his body. The doctor then climbed out the back door of the van and shut it tightly. He picked up the plastic wrapping for the body bag and crumpled it into a ball as he quickly checked to the tires of the van to make sure he hadn't flattened any when he slid off the road. Just as he was finishing his circuit around the van, a large vehicle pulled up. It was a Norsefire security truck. Dr. Sterling couldn't suppress a thrill of fear as the boxy matte black truck rolled to a stop.

"Hey, mate!" called the driver. "What you doin' way out here? And at this time o' night?"

The speaker was an affable-looking young man, dressed in a Norsefire uniform. He appeared to be the only occupant of the truck. Despite his genial demeanor, Sterling could see the suspicion in his eyes.

"I was on my way to the detention center," Sterling answered, stepping closer to the driver's open window. "I'm a doctor; I was called in for a consultation."

"Guess you're a bit late," said the driver. "'Round midnight there was these big explosions. Whole place nearly went up."

"Really?" Sterling said, looking back down the road to the flickering orange glow. "Was anyone hurt?"

"Hurt? Half the people are dead as dead can be," replied the driver coarsely. "Most of the other half ain't doin' so good, if you know what I mean. They called in for help from Salisbury earlier. Every emergency unit for miles around is up there."

Sterling considered the man currently resting in his van. It was pretty clear that he came from the detention center. _But how in the hell did he manage to walk what looks like three miles without collapsing or being seen?_ Sterling wondered.

"Hey, doc, you ain't seen nobody out here, have you?" the driver asked him suddenly. "We're looking for the man that's caused all that up there. Some lady doctor claims she saw him, walking through the fires, all burnt up. She says he then walked away, casual as you please, into the dark."

The driver's derisive tone indicated how ridiculous this notion was to him. Dr. Sterling gave a faint smile, feeling his stomach plunge to his feet. He asked, "What would you do if you found him?"

"What, if I find him out here?" the driver asked, somewhat incredulously. "What you do with any mad dog…put him down.

"Say, you never did say why you're all cock-eyed like that on the side of the road," the young man said. "What happened?"

Dr. Sterling struggled to affect a casual tone. "Some animal ran across the roadway. When I tried to avoid it I ended up sliding all over the place. I was just checking to see if I blew a tire."

"Right," said the driver, peering at him. "Alright then. When you get done there, why don't you head on up the road. I'm sure they can use all the hands they get."

The doctor agreed and stepped back as the man re-started the truck and rumbled down the road toward the detention facility. Dr. Sterling's mind was racing as he climbed into the driver's seat of his van. He leaned into the back compartment and checked the vital signs of his patient on the digital monitor. The signs were steady and the man was quiet. The doctor settled back into the driver's seat and gripped the wheel.

_Well, John my boy, you've got yourself in a real mess now_, he thought with bleak humor, the voice in his head sounding like his wife's. _Only you can end up harboring a fugitive and murderer just by driving down the road._

After debating his course of action for several moments, the doctor finally started the van. He turned the vehicle around and headed back toward London, hoping the young man in the truck wasn't waiting for him at the other end of the road.

London, three hours later:

Dr. Sterling pulled the van into the small garage attached to the clinic. He shut the engine off with a weary sigh and climbed out. Thanks to several calls made with his mobile phone Helen was already waiting near the interior entrance to the clinic with a gurney and a cart full of supplies. Sterling wrapped his arms around her as she stepped forward, whispering his thanks into her brown hair.

"There's no thanks needed between us, man of mine," she replied with a twinkle in her eye. Sterling could tell she was relieved to see him. He recalled her worried expression when he left earlier that night. Many people didn't return from a government-ordered summons. After lingering a moment in her embrace, Sterling reluctantly pulled away. Helen's attitude became instantly business-like as she turned to roll the cart to the van. Sterling grabbed the gurney and followed her. She opened the back door to the van and waited for him.

Sterling entered the van and checked his patient's status. He seemed to be deeply unconsciously, probably due to the second dose of morphine Sterling had administered an hour ago. He motioned for Helen to step in and help to move the man. She gave a curious glance to the black body bag, but didn't ask any questions. The handles on the bag made the transfer from van to gurney fairly simple. They left him in the bag, deciding to take him out when they reached the operating room. Once all the wires and tubes were sorted out, and a fresh bag of Ringer solution was attached, they took him into the clinic.

The transfer from the gurney to the operating table was more difficult, owing to the patient's ruined flesh. Helen had been an Emergency Room Nurse for over fifteen years, but Sterling could see her swallow thickly under her mask when some of the man's blistered flesh stuck to her gloves as she pulled her hands away. It would only get worse once they started to clean and debride the wounds. With stable vital signs, they began to treat the burns.

"Have you checked his eyes since you first irrigated them, John?" Helen asked as Dr. Sterling began to flush and scrub the burns.

"I put some droplets in them, but nothing else," he answered. She nodded and carefully started to remove the dressings lying across his eyes. Sterling was carefully picking out pieces of burned fabric from the man's torso when she uncovered his eyes. She opened one, examining the burns on the surface of his eyes. Helen began irrigating them again. She nearly dropped the bottle of saline solution when the man suddenly shuddered and twitched, his eyes rolling around.

A hand, looking like a mass of raw red and white pulp, clamped onto Sterling's left wrist. The eyes of the man, unseeing, continued to dart around. A harsh whisper, muffled by the oxygen mask, emerged from the man.

" 'Oh villain, villain, smiling, damned villain,' " he said, grip tightening as each word passed his lips. Dr. Sterling cried out as he felt a bone in his wrist fracture. He tried to pull the man's hand off, but the man only gripped with more force. Helen also tried to pull it away, to no avail. Sterling hissed out a curse as another crack was heard and he felt the bones grinding together.

" 'My tables,--meet it is I set it down, That one may smile, and smile, and be a villain;' " the man continued, seemingly oblivious to the doctor's pain. Helen turned toward him, leaning so that her lips were close to his ear.

" 'The quality of mercy is not strain'd. It droppeth as the gentle rain from heaven, Upon the place beneath,' " she said urgently. The man paused, his relentless squeezing momentarily halted.

"Mercy," the man breathed, releasing his hold on Sterling's wrist. The doctor jerked away, cradling his injured limb. Helen quickly filled a syringe with morphine and dosed the patient. His eyes fluttered closed and his body relaxed.

"He shouldn't have woken up yet," Sterling told Helen as she examined his broken wrist. "That last dose should have kept him out for hours. It's like he's metabolizing it at an accelerated rate."

"Dearest, we need to set this before the swelling gets too bad," she reminded him gently. "He can wait a few minutes."

Dr. Sterling conceded the point. He stripped off his latex gloves and reached for a bottle of ibuprofen while Helen powered up the fluoroscope. Helen pulled his surgical gown off. After setting the bones and checking the alignment with fluoroscope, Helen put a cast on his left arm that went from his forearm to the base of his fingers. Making sure he had an ice pack on the cast, she returned to the burned man in the operating room. He followed along a few minutes later.

Dr. Sterling decided to intubate the patient now. Already signs of edema could be seen on the man's body. Airway swelling would make intubation later almost impossible. With a little fumbling, and a lot of help from Helen, he got the breathing tube in. She finished working on the man's eyes, re-bandaged them, and turned her attention back to the rest of his skin. With Sterling helping as best he could with one hand, they cleaned the wounds and applied ointment. Sterile non-adhesive dressings were placed in areas where the skin might knit together accidentally, such as between the legs and groin or the between the fingers.

Near collapse with exhaustion, and feeling every day of their 50+ years, the couple finished working on the man. Sterling gave him another dose of morphine, figuring if the fellow kept to same schedule, they might have a chance of keeping him asleep through the worst of the pain.

The next several days involved caring for the stranger in between running the practice. His wounds needed constant attention. They required cleaning and debridement, with frequent ointment application. His eyes needed particular care if he was to see properly again. The edema required Dr. Sterling to make incisions along the skin of the chest to allow the tissues to expand and the patient to breath. A surgical circumcision was performed. The prepuce had help to protect part of the man's penis from the burns, but the inflexible scar tissue on the prepuce would prevent normal erectile function if allow to remain. Dr. Sterling hoped this measure would prevent the loss of that function, though the damage to his other reproductive structures made it doubtful this man would ever be fertile.

They administered gallons of intravenous fluids and many doses of painkillers. Whenever the man started to awaken, he would mumble quotations to himself. He seemed to have an encyclopedic knowledge of Shakespeare and other classics. Helen would occasionally say the next line with him, if she recognized the quote. Reasoning that they couldn't keep calling him the burn victim, Helen took to calling him William.

It was Sterling who noticed how quickly the man was healing. Burns that should take months to heal would be scarred over in a few weeks. On the eighth day, the man opened healed eyes when Helen took off the bandages. Squinting in the light that must have been unbearably bright, he revealed dark blue eyes. After studying Helen for moment, the lids shuttered closed and he fell back into unconsciousness. Dr. Sterling noted the progress with an amazed shake of his head.

Present:

"Well?" Helen's voice insinuated itself into the memory. "Are you going to eat that food or just stare at it all day?"

"Hmm? Oh…yes. Sorry," Sterling replied. He shook off his reverie and dug into the now cool eggs.

"What were you thinking so hard about?" she asked as she sat back down at the table.

Sterling considered the question before replying.

"The beginning," he said. "I was thinking about the beginning."

_End of Chapter 5_

A/N: Okay, once again V was unconscious through most of this one, but he was there, right? We'll get him back on his feet soon. Thanks again for all the reviews!

A/N2: I can just see myself being lashed for gross abuse of a Shakespeare quotation. Remember, V's not quite right in the head at the time.

Quotations:

"Blow, blow, thou winter wind,

Thou art not so unkind

As man's ingratitude;"

--From As You Like It (Act II, Scene VII)

"O villain, villain, smiling, damned villain!

My tables,--meet it is I set it down,

That one may smile, and smile, and be a villain;

At least, I am sure, it may be so in Denmark:"

--From Hamlet (Act I, Scene V)

"The quality of mercy is not strain'd.

It droppeth as the gentle rain from heaven

Upon the place beneath.

It is twice blest:

It blesseth him that gives and him that takes."

--From Merchant of Venice (Act IV, Scene I)


	6. Chapter 6

Dum Spiro, Spero

Disclaimer: These characters don't belong to me and I'm certainly not making any money from them.

_Chapter 6_

The ride back to the headquarters of the Nose was mostly quiet. Dominic tried to press Finch for details about his whereabouts the previous evening, but the Chief Inspector ignored his questions. The younger man subsided into silence after two unanswered inquiries and concentrated on his driving. As soon as they walked into the building, administrative assistants handed them stacks of written phone messages. Finch stuffed the messages in his coat pocket and kept on walking to his office. Dominic followed, waving away junior detectives waiting for a chance to speak with Finch.

As soon as Dominic closed the door to their office Finch activated the listening device scrambler. He sat heavily in his chair, feeling the effects of two sleepless nights catching up with him. Dominic sat in the chair opposite Finch, looking at him closely.

"Chief, are you alright?" Dominic asked.

"I'm fine," Finch replied, suppressing a flash of irritation at the scrutiny. "What's the situation?"

Dominic couldn't suppress his own aggravation with Finch's non-answers. Anger had been simmering in Dominic through the early morning, fed by the worry he felt when he couldn't reach Finch. His words were bitten out in a rush.

"Creedy and Chancellor Sutler are still missing, two-thirds of the force didn't show up for work today, the phones have been ringin' off the hook, and you disappeared," Dominic said to Finch. "Nobody knows what's going on. We had to pull most of our patrols back in because they were getting attacked by groups of people. The military has withdrawn back to their home bases and refuse to assist us, citing lack of an authorized commander. The Finger has locked down their headquarters. Oh, and the utilities are out for twenty blocks around Parliament."

Finch was only half-listening by the end of Dominic's rant. As the younger man paused for a breath and darted a glance at Finch, the chief inspector merely muttered, "Missing?"

"Sorry?" Dominic replied, puzzled at the seeming change of topic.

"You said Creedy and the Chancellor are missing," Finch clarified.

"That's right. Dascombe called here all in a lather sometime early this morning, saying he couldn't get a hold of them," Dominic said. "Or you, sir."

There it was again. The unsubtle, but unspoken, demand that Finch explain his mysterious absence since the previous night. Finch ignored it.

"What about the other council members? Any information on them?" he asked. Dominic frowned at the evasion but answered anyway.

"Apparently there's going to be a meeting at noon today in the council room at the Party headquarters. I'm not sure, but I think most of the brass is holed up there right now," Dominic said. "Listen, Chief…"

"Dominic, I know you want to know where I was last night…" Finch began, but the younger man interrupted him.

"No, there's something I need to tell you first," Dominic said, his hands nervously moving the loose papers on his desk. The uncharacteristic fidgeting captured Finch's attention more than the detective's words.

"I think you should hear this from me in case it becomes an issue," Dominic began, still not quite looking at Finch. "I was at the destruction of the Houses of Parliament last night. In the crowd…wearing a mask and all. I took it off afterward. I'm sure people saw me..."

As Dominic's voice trailed off he looked up at Finch with a peculiar expression. It was a curious mixture of hesitation, unease and the smallest hint of defiance. It reminded Finch of a teenaged boy who has told a parent about unpleasant truth he is prepared to defend, but he still feared the consequences. Or perhaps feared seeing disappointment in the parent's face. Seeing Finch's blank expression Dominic started to ramble on.

"Look, I realize it probably wasn't the best idea," he said, standing up and starting to pace. "It's just I don't know if I can keep on with the way things are. Sometimes I wonder at night how many people disappear into black bags because of the work that we do. I just wanted to show that I think things have all gone wrong."

He stopped pacing, and faced Finch squarely. "I know things may not change, and I might get into a lot of trouble for it, but there it is."

Finch took in his firm stance and composed expression. It was clear Dominic was expecting some kind of cautionary statement or even a reprimand. The events of the past twenty-four hours seemed to wash over Finch then, shrouded in a haze of sleep deprivation and soul-deep ache. He looked at Dominic's sober expression and, without knowing what else he could do, he started to laugh.

It was a ragged laugh, almost wheezing, sounding like it was a mere breath away from a sob. The younger man stared Finch, clearly taken aback by that reaction. Finch continued to laugh, feeling the moisture gathering at the corners of his eyes and hearing the hysterical edge to the laughter. He managed to gulp back a few big breathes as the laughter started to fade.

"Dominic," he gasped, the black humor draining away as abruptly as it had hit him. "I wish my night had been that uneventful."

"What do you mean?" Dominic asked, sinking back into his chair. He was now looking at Finch as if the inspector had gone slightly mad. Finch sucked in a deep breath and swiped roughly at his watery eyes.

"Sutler and Creedy aren't missing," Finch said, looking up at Dominic. "They're dead."

Dominic sat back with serious expression. His anger and confusion at Finch's manner were put aside in the wake of this startling statement.

"Codename V killed them, along with a dozen of Creedy's handpicked Fingermen," Finch continued. "I got there after it all went down. They managed to wound V, but he somehow made it back down the tunnels to an old platform."

Dominic found himself leaning forward, immediately engrossed in the inspector's story.

"I can't see how he made it as far as he did. He seemed to leave pints of blood on the ground every ten steps," Finch continued, his expression faraway. "When I found him he was stretched out in a train, dead. The Hammond girl was there too."

Finch glanced at Dominic when he said the last sentence. Dominic's eyebrows quirked up in surprise. They had believed Evey Hammond was either dead or had disassociated herself from V.

"She was standing there, getting ready to pull the drive lever of the train," Finch said, his eyes losing focus again. "I walked up, ready to do my duty. I told her back off…and she said no."

Finch looked at Dominic again, this time with an intensity that made the younger man uncomfortable.

"So help me, Dominic, she said no. She said we needed hope," Finch continued. "She said that, and she pulled that lever, and I let her. I let her send that train on to Parliament. I spent the rest of the night on the roof of a building, watching it burn."

Dominic felt his jaw drop open as the implications of Finch's statement fully registered. Finch met his astonished look with an even gaze. A minute of silence stretched out in the office. Dominic finally blew out a breath and ran a hand through his hair.

"Chief," he said. "If you're trying to set my mind at ease, you're doing a terrible job of it."

Finch gave him a faint smile and a slight shake of his head. The feeble attempt at humor was a welcome glimmer of the young man's usual disposition. Finch was glad Dominic was taking the news that well. He was going to need his help.

"Look, Dom, we only have about three hours before that meeting at the Party headquarters," Finch said. "I want you to get together a crime scene crew you can trust to keep their mouths closed."

"What for?" Dominic asked, looking at Finch closely.

"We're going to go collect the bodies left down in Victoria Station," Finch replied. "But I want to keep it quiet for now. And we need to be done before that meeting."

"I don't understand, Chief," Dominic said. "Why are we trying to keep it quiet?"

Finch sighed, suddenly impatient now that his course of action seemed clear. "Think, Dominic! What happens if the news comes out that both Sutler and Creedy are dead?"

Dominic considered the question carefully. "There's no defined successor for the High Chancellor position. People would be scrabbling over it like dogs after a bone."

"But if the Chancellor and his rottweiler are merely missing…" Finch prompted.

"Then no one will have the guts to openly take the position," Dominic finished. "Not yet, at least."

"It buys us some time," Finch said, almost to himself. Dominic looked at him curiously, but didn't question the remark. Finch locked eyes with Dominic.

"It is absolutely critical this is kept under wraps right now. Pick only a few people, ones you trust implicitly," Finch told him. "We'll leave in fifteen minutes."

"Right," Dominic said. He stood and started to walk toward the door. He paused when Finch called his name. The detective glanced back at Finch.

"Thanks for worrying," Finch told him. Dominic merely nodded and exited the room. Finch sighed and rubbed his tired eyes.

Norsefire Party Headquarters, noon:

The meeting had already started by the time Finch arrived. Or, more correctly, it had grown from a fretful gathering of Party leaders in various rooms of the building to a full-blown traveling argument that had arrived in the council room just before Finch walked in.

"-last damn time, don't call me that!" came Bunny Etheridge's voice as Finch stepped into the room. The din of multiple voices dipped slightly at his arrival, before ramping back up again.

"Conrad, say something!" snapped Helen Heyer, wife of the head of the Eye. Conrad Heyer looked at a loss for words as his beautiful, but vicious, spouse glared at him. She rolled her eyes at his meek response.

"Listen, until we find the High Chancellor and Mr. Creedy, the country is in a state of emergency," said Jeremiah Cross. Cross was Creedy's second in command at the Finger. "The task of maintaining order will naturally fall to the Finger."

Silence greeted this statement, before everyone began to talk at once. Finch watched them all arguing with each other, wishing he were anywhere else at the moment. Etheridge was poking a finger into Dascombe's chest, and Mrs. Heyer was haranguing Cross while Conrad Heyer simply stood there.

"Quiet!" Finch shouted, startling the room's occupants. Finch stalked over to the knot of people.

"Cross, you're not a member of the council, so you don't have the authority to make that kind of judgment," Finch told the hatchet-faced Cross flatly. "As of right now, the police are maintaining order in London. The Nose will be handling coordination with the Finger if reinforcements are needed anywhere."

Cross started to protest, but became aware of the hostile looks he was suddenly receiving. The other council members seemed to realize he was just an underling, a poor substitute for Creedy. In the face of Finch's cold statement he seemed unimportant compared to _real_ Party leaders. Finch looked at him a moment longer, then glanced towards the others, satisfied Cross was cowed for the moment.

"Conrad," hissed Mrs. Heyer. "Don't just stand there, for God's sake."

Conrad Heyer turned brick red at her tone, so emasculating and belittling that the other men refused to look at him. He stared at the floor, trying to ignore her anxious muttering. Finch dismissed him mentally, and turned his attention to Etheridge and Dascombe.

"Listen," Finch told them. "We're searching for Mr. Creedy and Chancellor Sutler right now. It's probably best if we hold off on making any hasty decisions until a full investigation has been conducted by the Nose."

"And just what are we supposed to tell the people in the meantime?" Dascombe demanded. "I've had to pull my people off the streets. BTN reporters are being attacked on sight by these masked lawbreakers."

"And our surveillance trucks are being vandalized," put in Etheridge. "It's not safe for any of us out there right now."

"For now, I would say keep your people off the streets," Finch said, thinking quickly. "Give us a few days to restore order. Once the initial thrill wears off, things will be easier to control."

"And…what? Broadcast reruns of _Storm Saxon_ all day long?" Dascombe said derisively.

"If necessary," Finch replied. "You don't need to tell people that it's chaos right now. I'm sure they already know.

"Look, we're all tired and could use some rest," Finch continued. "Just let the Nose and the police do their job, and I'll inform you of any new developments immediately."

The group grumbled unhappily, but started to file out of the council room. Finch heard Helen Heyer remark, "No one's in charge…not really."

That suited Finch just fine. Better that no one was in charge than someone like Cross. Finch trudged out after the others. Once he exited the building, he called Dominic. The younger man assured him the bodies had been collected and discreetly placed in cold storage. Finch decided to head home for some long-overdue sleep.

_End of Chapter 6_

A/N: Sorry, this one took a bit longer to get out and it's a bit short. And no V or Evey (who, at this point in the timeline are still in surgery and mourning in the Gallery, respectively). I had some real life work that's been consuming my time, plus I found this chapter a little trickier to write than the last one. I'm not sure what it says about me that I find writing about dragging a charred man around in a body bag easier than the intricacies of a revolution, but there you are. Next chapter, more V or Evey (or maybe both!)

A/N2: There is some dialogue lifted from the graphic novel in this chapter, but not too much I think. All reviews are greatly appreciated and very inspiring!


	7. Chapter 7

Dum Spiro, Spero

Disclaimer: These characters don't belong to me and I'm certainly not making any money from them.

_Chapter 7_

The Shadow Gallery belonged to Evey Hammond. It took three days for the concept to really sink in. During that time Evey wandered around much as she had done before when she was still an involuntary guest, sticking to familiar rooms and trying not to pry into private spaces. She had awakened that first day on the floor of the dressing room, cloak pressed to her face and her right side aching from lying on the stone floor. After stiffly climbing to her feet, she shook out the cloak and hung it back in the wardrobe, carefully closing the door.

Those three days Evey confined herself to the main gallery, the kitchen, her room and the bath. She prepared meals in the kitchen, ignoring the neatly folded apron lying on the wire metal shelf. She watched DVDs on the television, but none she had ever watched before with V. She read and listened to music, but nothing she had ever discussed with him. No unknown doors or drawers or passageways were investigated. In the evenings she would take the lift to the roof and watch the continued smoke rising from the ruins of Parliament, but with a curious detachment that dissociated the scene before her from any personal meaning. After the chill of the night drove her back into the Gallery she would bathe and fall into bed. No part of the routine included looking into new spaces that might provoke a flood of feelings and memories, as the cloak had.

It was on the third night, after Evey took the lift back to the basement that she ventured into a relatively unknown section of the Shadow Gallery. With the smell of smoldering wreckage still lingering on the back of her tongue, and the scents in the Gallery unchanged since she had arrived, Evey got the notion to visit Valerie's shrine to breath in the aroma of the roses. There was a lack of any strong emotion tied to the impulse; it was just a whim.

The door to the shrine swung open easily and the sweet scent wafted over Evey as she walked into the room. She stepped over to the large bunch of cut Scarlet Carson roses arranged under a poster of _The Salt Flats_ and reached out to touch a bloom. When her fingers made contact, several of the petals shook loose and fell to the floor. Evey jerked her hand back as if she'd made contact with a live wire.

Evey's eyes followed the petals as they drifted to the floor and settled among a scattering of other fallen petals. A cursory inspection of the flowers revealed many of them were drooping, curling, losing their petals. They were dying. Evey stumbled back and sucked in a deep breath, like a swimmer surfacing after too long under the water. This tangible reminder of the passage of time threatened to crack the calm veneer she had painted over herself the last few days. Evey turned away from the roses and found herself facing V.

Or rather facing the memory of the first, and last, time she had seen him here.

"_What they did to me, created me," V said. "It's a basic principle of the universe that every action will create an equal and opposing reaction."_

"_Is that how you see it?" Evey demanded, incredulity edging into her voice. "Like an equation?"_

_She hadn't finished the last word of her question before he replied._

"_What was done to me was monstrous!" V said, his voice raised in anger at her for the first time._

"_Then they created a monster," Evey said without pity._

The statement had scored a hit. V had dropped his head and rocked back on his heels as if she had raised a hand to strike him. The satisfaction of getting just a little bit of her own back from him was washed away in shame at having deliberately caused him pain. The shame was accompanied by other emotions that Evey couldn't identify at the time. It would occur to her later that it was the first time she had seen a crack in his reserve, his carefully constructed persona that hid as much as his mask did. Even the times she had seen him at play, such as fencing with a suit of armor or quoting old movie lines, had an air of affectation to them. As if V were simply taking on the part of a man fencing with a deadly opponent and saying his words.

V's reaction to her statement allowed Evey to truly understand for the first time that a man existed alongside the constructed physical manifestation of an idea. At the time Evey didn't give it any thought; her own feelings for V were far too mixed up to consider the implications of that realization. It was only after leaving that Evey understood what she had witnessed.

Another memory leeched from under the surface of the veneer.

"_This is my gift to you, Evey," V said. "Everything that I have: my home, my books, the Gallery, this train. I'm leaving them to you, to do with what you will."_

V's gift to her. Though he had said it was Evey's to do with as she pleased, she knew that he would be disappointed with how she had used the gift so far. The veneer thinned, and Evey's suddenly tenuous hold on her emotions slipped a bit more.

"_Tomorrow a different world will begin, that different people will shape, and this choice belongs to them," V said, having shown Evey the train that would destroy Parliament. _

A different world, shaped by different people. People like Evey. This last memory evaporated the remains of the veneer and Evey's emotions bled through to her conscious mind. The grief was still sharp and immediate, but it was now edged with determination. Evey shook off her reverie and her surroundings came back into sharp focus. She still stood in Valerie's shrine, facing the door. After taking another moment to collect herself, Evey strode forward and left the room. It was time to start exploring V's legacy.

Evey immediately headed to the staircase V had used to get to the Underground tunnel. The door to the staircase was off from the same corridor that led to the false prison V had constructed. Evey pushed open the door and walked down one flight of the stone stairs. There was a heavy wooden door at the landing. V had hurried her past this door on the eve of the 5th and down another flight of stairs to the level of the Underground tunnel. Evey now pulled on the wrought iron handle of the door and was slightly surprised when it swung easily toward her. It wasn't locked.

The open door revealed a large space much like the main gallery one floor up, though this area was more circular in shape. The space was constructed from the same stone, and Evey could see six doors leading to other rooms. Like the Gallery above, there were various paintings and artwork displayed in the area, and rugs covered much of the floor. However, the overall appearance was less cluttered. Clearly V had placed his favorite pieces in the main living area and used this floor to house some of the rest of his treasures. After looking over some of these new pieces of art, Evey stepped over to the first door on the left and opened it.

The room was pitch dark. Evey felt along the wall beside the doorway until her fingers found the switch and turned it. Bright lights illuminated the space, causing Evey to squint as her eyes adjusted. Bright glints of light winking off shiny metal were the first things she saw. The light was reflecting off the blades of dozens of daggers hanging from racks lining one wall. She recognized the daggers as being the same style that V used.

Evey stepped further into the room. In the middle of the room stood a workbench and a stand-alone device that Evey realized was a small forge. The workbench had an anvil on one end and an electric grinder on the other end, with a large open space in the middle. She turned and saw another workbench against the wall. This bench had strips of leather on coils, containers of honing oil and sharpening stones neatly arrayed on it. Another turn and another wall revealed it was home to a bookshelf containing volumes on metalworking, blacksmithing, and weapons design. Boxes of metal ingots were placed throughout the room.

_It's an armory_, Evey thought. _This is where he got his weapons. He made them._

After looking around for another few minutes, Evey left the room, turning off the light as she went. She opened the next door on the left, wondering what she might find now. A flip of the light switch and she found herself looking at a chemistry laboratory. The room was larger than the armory. Several lab benches with black countertops were clustered in the center of the room. Water sinks and taps for gas and air were built into the benches. Rows of gleaming glassware were sitting on shelves along one wall. The opposite wall contained just as many books on any possible chemical application Evey could imagine. Inorganic chemistry, organic chemistry, explosives, pharmaceuticals, petroleum derivatives were just a few of the topics Evey noticed. She also discovered several handwritten journals detailing experiments conducted by V. Flipping through the most recent volume revealed a recipe of sorts for a particularly brilliant red firework. Evey put the journal back on the shelf with a hand that trembled slightly. She turned off the light and headed for the next room, hardly knowing what to expect.

The third room was small compared to the last one. The lights were already on when Evey pushed the door open. The scent of roses rolled over her as the door swung in. In the middle of the room was a rectangular stone trough, about three feet tall and filled with soil. Growing in the soil were Scarlet Carson rosebushes. The bushes were thick and full of blossoms. Shelves at the far side of the room contained gardening tools, plant food and buckets. A water tap complete with hose was affixed to the wall. Evey touched the petals of a flower, relieved that they didn't fall to the floor. She made a mental note to take some fresh cuttings up to Valerie's shrine later. It was time to explore the rest of the rooms.

The fourth door led to a workout facility. All manner of exercise equipment could be found. Free weights, gymnastic equipment, workout mats, pull-up bars, cardio machines, heavy bags and stacks of towels were some of the items in the room. A large open space was cleared in the middle of the room. Snap together foam padding had been placed on the floor, presumably to cushion any falls onto the stone. One wall contained wooden targets with notches missing due to knife strikes. Evey also found a small bookshelf in this room. These books contained information on proper exercise forms, nutrition, general health and wellness. There were also numerous books on hand-to-hand combat techniques. A small television with built-in DVD player was placed on a stand next to the bookshelf. Several DVDs were sitting on the shelves of the stand. Most of the DVDs covered the same topics as the books on the bookcase, but Evey felt a laugh bubble up when she saw the titles of several kung-fu movies. She had a sudden mental image of V standing gravely with arms crossed, intently watching the fighters in the movies before exploding into the same series of moves. The amusement was contained a tang of sadness and convinced Evey to move onto the next room.

The switch for the room did not turn on the lights, but instead activated a large bank of computer monitors. The monitors showed the V logo briefly before most flickered and showed new scenes. Evey stepped up to the monitors, her brow creased as she tried to figure out what the monitors were showing. She initially thought it might be television programs or news reports, but the camera angles looked wrong. A familiar street corner captured her attention. Evey realized she was watching the feeds from the government's security cameras. Her jaw dropped as she looked more closely at the equipment sitting beneath the banks of monitors. Numerous computer keyboards and input devices were built into workstations. One of the workstations contained what looked like radio receiver equipment. A few quick button presses, and sound erupted from speakers placed above the monitors. It was an FM radio transmission, on the government band. Evey turned it off and continued to look around the room.

As with the last three rooms, there were bookcases taking up the wall at the rear of the room. Instruction manuals for all manner of electronic equipment made up the bulk of the books. Computer programming guides also comprised a large section of the collection. Like the chemistry lab, Evey found several handwritten volumes. These volumes contained detailed instructions on breeching the government's computer systems. Evey couldn't help but feel a little overwhelmed at the sheer amount of information available at her fingertips in this room. If V's notes were correct, then with a little practice she would be able to discover anything she wanted to know about the government. It was a sobering thought that unnerved Evey enough to send her out of that room and on to the last one.

As soon as Evey entered the last room she knew it was the one that she had been subconsciously searching for the entire time. The lights revealed a cross between a tailor's shop and a costume store. The left side of the room contained many outfits and disguises, including realistic facial masks. Evey couldn't suppress a shiver when she recognized the masks of her captors during her imprisonment. The Rossiter mask brought back particularly unpleasant memories. Evey studied some of the other disguises. She saw young faces, old faces, even some which appeared to be feminine. There were suits that could change the shape of a person's body and canes that contained blades within them. Evey lost interest in the costumes when she caught sight of the equipment in the middle of the room.

Sewing machines were mounted on a long work table. A second work table contained drawers filled with measuring tapes, scissors, chalk, pins and other sewing tools. Shelves beneath both tables held bolts of fabric and stretches of fine black leather. Evey drew a finger across the leather, realizing it was the same kind that made up V's boots, gloves and belt. As she was admiring the leather a glimpse of white out of the corner of her eye caught her attention. She turned her head toward it and her breathing stopped.

The right side of the room was clearly dedicated to the V costume. The full costume was fitted on a mannequin, complete with mask, wig, hat and cloak. The fall of the cloak hid the emptiness of the sleeves and pants. The effect was eerie, as if she was seeing a V frozen in time. Evey walked up to the costume and hesitantly reached out a hand to feel the fabric of the cloak. It was heavy and soft, like its mates in the wardrobe upstairs. All of the costume pieces were the same as the ones in the wardrobe. The mask was smooth and cool to the touch. Evey remembered the last time she had touched such a mask.

"_That's not true," she implored V. She reached up and gently pulled him down to meet her. Her lips pressed against the smooth surface of the mask. She felt a puff of warm air blow through the opening in the mouth of the mask as V exhaled a shaky breath. Evey pulled back, looking into the dark openings of the eyes of the mask. She could feel the hand that had risen to her waist slip away and take her hand._

"_I can't," V said after a long moment of silence. With this final denial, he turned and rushed down the tunnel. _

Evey stepped back from the mannequin and looked at the small table to the left of it. It appeared to contain cobbling and leatherworking equipment. Seeing nothing of immediate interest, Evey looked at the bench on the right side of the costumed mannequin. This workbench contained a large variety of jars of paint and clear coatings. Brushes and foam sponges were neatly lined up in tidy piles. A heavy wooden form that resembled a wig stand was mounted to one side of the bench's top surface. Evey started to open the drawers mounted underneath the workbench. Some drawers contained wig-making materials, including tools and silky black hair. Other drawers contained blank, unfinished masks. Evey picked up some of the masks and was surprised to discover they were made from different materials. Some appeared to be made from a thick plastic or fiberglass. Others were made of wood. A third kind, extremely heavy for its size, appeared to be some kind of ceramic-coated steel. This last kind had a leather lining on the inside. Another drawer contained sturdy leather thongs that would serve as fasteners for the masks.

Evey shut the drawers and stepped back from the workbench. As with all the other rooms a set of bookcases on the rear wall contained books specific to making clothing, shoes, hats, masks, wigs, and all other forms of apparel. The now-ubiquitous journals contained instructions on the finer points of constructing the Guy Fawkes-inspired costume. Evey abandoned the bookcases when the V mannequin captured her attention again. It seemed to be regarding her with an air of general expectancy. Evey averted her gaze, troubled by the thought.

It suddenly struck Evey that every place she had explored, and the Gallery above, had been neat as a pin. There were no pieces of equipment out of place. The kitchen was fully stocked. Books containing knowledge specific to the purpose of each room were all organized and properly labeled. There wasn't even any noticeable dust in any of the places. It appeared as though V had meticulously prepared his home for her occupancy, placing all of the tools and knowledge at her fingertips. And the mannequin seemed to be asking, _"Well? What are you waiting for?"_

"I'm not sure," Evey found herself saying.

"_Why? Are you unclear about your purpose?"_

"You mean the purpose you meant for me?" Evey said. "I still don't know what I'm supposed to do now…"

"_Do what thou wilt, Evey."_

Evey let out a slightly hysterical laugh. "Even my hallucination of you talks in riddles."

She stumbled away from the mannequin and left the room, only just remembering to turn off the lights. Once out in the circular open space Evey sank to her knees and tried to quiet her racing thoughts. Over and over she kept coming back to the idea that she was meant to do something important with all that V had left to her. All the knowledge available here was useless unless it was put to some use. But what use? This is where Evey found herself hitting a mental block. How could she apply all of the tools at her disposal?

A sudden insistent buzzer shattered the silence. Evey jumped to her feet, heart pounding furiously at the unexpected noise. The noise sounded again, and Evey caught movement from the direction of the computer room's open door. The monitors had turned on by themselves. Evey crept over to the doorway and looked inside. Six monitors were illuminated. Satisfied that no one had snuck up behind her, Evey entered the room and looked at the monitors. The screens showed the outside of the building above the Shadow Gallery. She could see two men at the outside door leading to the alley on one of the monitors. One of the men reached out a hand toward a button beside the door and the buzzer sounded again. Evey looked closer at the men and realized it was Chief Inspector Finch and his partner, the young detective she maced at Jordan Tower a year ago. As Evey turned to head for the stairs, she heard V's voice in her head again.

"_There are no coincidences, Evey. Merely the illusion of coincidence."_

_End of Chapter 7_

A/N: I know some folks are very anxious for V and Evey to meet again, but I have a pretty clear idea where I'm headed with this story and several pieces need to fall into place before that happens. I would ask for your patience while I line up the dominoes. Or I might suggest that you hold off reading the story until it's finished. Please, this isn't to discourage anyone from giving their thoughts about the story…I just wanted to clarify that point.

A/N2: I know the graphic novel had that awesome spiral staircase winding through the levels of the Shadow Gallery, but we don't see anything like that in the Shadow Gallery in the movie and I'm not sure where one would fit. So it's just a stone stairway now. There were some generous borrowings from the graphic novel in this chapter.


	8. Chapter 8

Dum Spiro, Spero

A/N: Edited the chapter. Containers contained! Hood explained! (I hope)

Disclaimer: These characters don't belong to me and I'm certainly not making any money from them.

_Chapter 8_

Given the nature of his injuries, Helen supposed it was inevitable that V would develop an infection. During his second night his temperature rose and an examination of his blood work revealed an elevated white count. Dr. Sterling increased the dosage of antibiotics they were already giving him and alternated caring for him with Helen. The young people had been barred from the entering the room, both out of respect for the patient and concern for their safety. Delirium forced Sterling to put straps on V's wrists and ankles. These were reinforced with a second set of straps when V snapped the set attached to his right arm. It was mid-morning of the third day when his temperature started to drop slowly.

Helen was on watch, having been released from working in the practice by the two medical assistants and a nurse Dr. Sterling had called in. They worked at the Sterling Family Practice on a part-time basis, but the high volume of walk-in patients since the morning of November 5th had necessitated calling in the extra help. The hospitals were jammed with patients with injuries from riots, heart trouble, and all manner of other maladies. Already understaffed from absent workers, the average wait was at least twelve hours in any emergency room. Dr. Sterling's patients found they had a much better chance of being seen the same day if they went to the practice instead.

V was resting, albeit uneasily, at the moment. Helen had decided to busy herself while he was out. She had just returned from the laundry room, carrying a large gray plastic container with a lid. It had been fetched earlier from a storage room on the third floor of the building. Some of its contents had been laundered and returned to the box. New items were also added. Helen had snapped the lid back into place and lugged it down to V's room. The room, down a long hallway separate from the main practice, required an electronic access code to enter it. Helen had tapped in the code, and then pushed the door open with her foot while she balanced the container.

V shifted, but did not awaken when Helen pushed open the door. She placed the box against the far wall, and walked over to V's bedside. An examination of his vital signs revealed his temperature had dropped another fraction of a degree, but it was still elevated. Helen pressed her fingers lightly to his sweaty forehead, feeling the hot dampness on the scarred flesh. V turned his head with a groan, seeking the coolness her fingers provided.

"I know it burns, William," Helen soothed. "But you'll be better soon. Sooner than most of the poor souls that come here."

V's only reply was to exhale and shift. Helen smoothed her hand across his forehead again, and then readjusted the oxygen line under his nose which had slipped during his movements. She was confident that V would be better soon, once the fever got down to a manageable level. One side effect of his rapid healing abilities was the tendency for the healing process to be condensed into a smaller time span and consequently it was more intense. The fever had spiked at what would have been a dangerously-high peak for anyone else, but Helen knew V would be fine once it got back to normal. She remembered that in the early days after he first began healing from the burns that he had experienced a similar reaction to the infections caused by so many open wounds.

Satisfied her patient was well enough, Helen got back to her tasks. A few items were taken from the plastic box and placed on a counter. Also on the counter was a slender crystal vase containing a single rose. Helen placed the stem of the rose into a jar that was half-filled silica gel pellets. She then covered it tightly. In a few days the dried flower could be removed and sprayed with a clear matte finish to complete the preservation process. The result would look very much like the fresh-cut flower. She had placed the rose in a vase after they finished patching up V that first morning, but it would start to wilt soon if something wasn't done. The obvious importance V placed on it convinced Helen she should try to preserve it for him. Helen put the jar and the emptied vase in a cabinet.

After puttering around the room for a bit, tidying up and restocking what few supplies had been used, Helen settled herself in a chair by V's bedside. She shuffled through a stack of books placed on the bedside table.

"So, what shall it be this time?" Helen said aloud. "Shakespeare? Dumas? Melville? Sinclair? I think not. If I left it up to you we'd be reading another blood-soaked revenge story or depressing cautionary tale. A change of pace is in order, I believe."

V's only reply to this statement was a small tilt of his head toward Helen. His eyes did not open.

"I shall take that as an endorsement," she told him, picking up a dog-eared paperback and opening it. "We'll just pick up where I last left off, shall we?

" 'About four days after Edward's arrival Colonel Brandon appeared, to complete Mrs. Dashwood's satisfaction, and to give her the dignity of having, for the first time since her living at Barton, more company with her than her house would hold.' " Helen read aloud. " 'Edward was allowed to retain the privilege of first comer, and Colonel Brandon, therefore, walked every night to his old quarters at the Park; from whence he usually returned in the morning, early enough to interrupt the lover's first _tête-à-tête_ before breakfast.' "

As Helen was reciting, V started to shift his head from side to side and his breathing increased. Helen scooted the chair farther back from the bedside, out of reach should he break the straps again. She kept an eye on his fidgeting form as she read the next sentence.

" 'A three weeks' residence at Delaford, where, in his evening hours at least, he had little to do but to calculate the disproportion between thirty-six and seventeen,' " Helen continued, " 'brought him to Barton in a temper of mind which needed all the improvement in Marianne's looks, all the kindness of her welcome, and all the encouragement of her mother's language, to make it cheerful.' "

V became more agitated as Helen read the passage. He started mumbling as the sentence ended. Helen leaned closer, mindful of the arms now straining against the wrist cuffs, and tried to decipher his words.

"I can't …please, Evey…can't stop now…" V said, as his voice rose. "No tree…Evey…just a monster…"

Helen set aside the book and rose to get a cloth. She dampened it with cool water and gently pressed it to V's forehead. He quieted immediately at the touch. Helen looked at him with equal measures of sympathy and sadness.

"Well, my boy," Helen said. "If you didn't want to hear that one you only had to say so. To be honest I'd rather watch the old movie version. I had a bit of a crush on that actor who played Brandon, but don't tell John."

"John already knew," came a voice from the doorway. Helen looked over her shoulder at her husband.

"How's he doing?" Dr. Sterling asked, walking up to softly place a hand on her shoulder.

"He started carrying on a little just now, but the fever seems to be breaking," Helen replied. Sterling squeezed her shoulder lightly in acknowledgement, and then walked around the bed to examine his patient.

Dr. Sterling checked V's vitals and glanced at the clear plastic bags hanging from the IV unit. He nodded, and then pulled the bedclothes down. V was nude beneath them, the nature and extent of his wounds making a hospital gown an unnecessary hindrance. Sterling snapped on a pair of gloves, and then peeled up a corner of the taped bandage on V's upper left thigh. The incision beneath the bandage had already knit together. New pink skin could be seen around the sutures. Sterling shook his head in amazement. He had to cut deeply into V's thigh during surgery to remove the bullet lodged against the femur. The incision looked to be weeks-old, instead of days-old.

Checks of the two wounds on V's left arm and the one high on his right arm revealed the same rapid healing. Sterling cut away the support bandages on V's torso. Mindful of the fractured ribs beneath, the doctor lifted away the large gauze pads. The bullet entry points on V's abdomen and right shoulder had the same newly-healed look as the ones on his extremities. The gash that punctured his left lung hadn't knit together completely, nor had the long vertical incision on V's abdomen. The incision had allowed Dr. Sterling to repair the damage done to V's intestines by the abdominal shots. The doctor had closed it with staples. There was a slight crust at the join of the cut, evidence of the infection that was starting to leave V's body. Sterling removed the old dressings and threw them away.

"You would think I'd be used to seeing how fast he heals by now," Sterling remarked to Helen. She raised her gaze from V's injuries to her husband's eyes.

"I think we can allow our memories to fade a little at our age, my dear," she told him. Sterling smiled at her, taking in her lined face and wispy gray hair. Like her husband, she exuded an inner vitality which made her seem much younger than her 70-plus years. Sterling caught sight of the clock over her shoulder and sighed.

"I best be getting back," he said. "There was a brief lull, but I have no doubt there'll be a full house when I get back up there. Damn crazy fools running around bashing people with sticks, stealing their medicines, picking fights with policemen…

"Go ahead and remove the sutures, but leave the staples," he continued. "Slap some ointment on him and bandage him back up, will you? And hang another bag of antibiotics in an hour. You can probably take the straps off now."

"As you command, my love," Helen said, with a bow of her head. Sterling laughed and kissed her cheek on his way out the door. Helen re-wetted the cloth, folded it and laid it on V's forehead. He sighed and relaxed back into the bed. Helen set to work on cleaning and re-dressing his wounds.

Sterling General Practice, twelve hours later:

V felt consciousness return to him in a blinding rush. One moment he was sleeping deeply and the next moment he was utterly awake. Years of self-discipline allowed him to contain his reaction to a single gulping breath as his eyes flew open. Pain immediately radiated through his chest and abdomen at this unaccustomed expansion. V exhaled slowly as he held himself rigid. He forced himself to relax as he gained his bearings. The pain began to recede as the tension left his body.

The room was dimly lit, but V recognized it as being the same patient room from his last awakening. Soft, even breathing could be heard off to his left. V could see a cot about ten feet away containing a sleeping occupant that faced away from him. From the width of the shoulders V surmised it was Dr. Sterling. The doctor snorted suddenly, and then sighed before settling back into even breaths. V turned his attention to his body's condition.

Bandages swathed his torso and arms. V lifted the sheet and was momentarily set aback to see he wore nothing beneath it. Gauze was wound around a pad on his left thigh, just inches away from the edge of the wraps on his trunk. V gingerly prodded the concealed areas with his fingers. The pain was intense, but manageable in his estimation.

He slowly levered himself up to a sitting position. His ribs protested the shift most vigorously, but V ignored them. He pushed down the covers and swung his feet around to rest on the cold tile. A tug on a delicate portion of his anatomy made V realize someone had placed a catheter in him. He pulled it out with a wince and tossed it on the bed. The soft beeping beside him brought the various other tubes and wires to his attention. V switched off the vital signs monitor and the IV pump. He removed the IV, electrodes and oxygen line. After gathering his strength, V tentatively stood.

His legs wobbled and V had to sit down immediately. He rubbed the weakened muscles in his legs, willing the strength back into them. A second try and he managed to stay standing this time. Shooting pains were arcing along his left leg and his entire upper body ached fiercely, but V found he could still function. He took a step, then another. His legs held steady. V allowed himself to look around as he took a few more steps.

The plastic container against the wall caught his eye. It looked out of place in the orderly room. V limped over to the box, his bare feet softly shushing across the tile. Dr. Sterling snored again and turned over to his other side. V paused, waiting for the doctor to settle again. After he did, V resumed his shuffle over to the container. He quietly pulled the lid off and examined the contents. The dim light was more than adequate for eyes accustomed to being shaded with black cloth in a subterranean environment.

V recognized pieces of his costume. Hat, gloves, boots, wig, cloak and mask were sitting on top. All of the items appeared to have been cleaned. The other clothing was missing, and V guessed it was cut away from his body during surgery. V piled these items on the floor and continued his investigation. His hands encountered slick material as he lifted up dark clothing. V realized it was clothing from his last stay at the practice. The synthetic material was specifically designed for burn patients. It didn't stick to wounds, was very light and the seams were on the outside of the garments. If he recalled correctly the clothes were a dark gray color. V slipped on the long-sleeved shirt and slacks. The fit was loose enough to go over the dressings easily. He tied the drawstring on the slacks.

There was another piece of cloth left in the container. V lifted it up and turned it over in his hands several times. It was a hood made from the same material as the clothing. It was designed to be worn over the head. A thinner material, similar to the cloth that covered the eye holes in V's mask, fell over the wearer's face. Despite the obvious use for concealment, the hood had served a more important function. It helped to filter light. All but the dimmest light had been nearly intolerable when V's sight had first returned to him. The pressure caused by shaded glasses was intolerable against his burned flesh, so the hood was an acceptable medium. V pulled the hood over his head and placed the other items back in the container. Dr. Sterling continued to sleep on, oblivious to the activity.

V stood, straightening himself with care. He limped to the door, each step feeling just a bit looser and easier than the last. V silently opened the door and stepped through the doorway. He found that after the door closed he couldn't open it again. The numerical keypad on the door explained his inability to regain entry. V shrugged mentally, figuring he could always awaken the good doctor if he wanted to get back into the room.

V walked slowly up the hallway, trying to stay alert while simultaneously ignoring the flashes of pain periodically lighting up his nerve endings. The hallway terminated into another one, this hall clearly used more often. As V glanced down to the right he caught sight of a shaft of light falling on the wall and floor at the end of the hall. For reasons he couldn't explain V found himself drawn to that light. He walked down the hallway and followed the beam of light up to a window on the stairwell landing. Clutching the railing, and shifting the weight from his left leg as quickly as possible, V made it up to the window.

The view of the ground from the window was unspectacular. It showed a deserted street with a few parked cars. V lifted his eyes instead to the sky and caught his breath. The moon, nearly full, shown brilliantly amid a field of stars. Most of the stars looked dim due to the lights of the city, but the moon seemed to shine forth all the brighter for it. V placed a hand on the cool window and leaned closer. His breath started to fog the glass.

Shuffling footfalls on the landing caused V to whirl around. He saw Helen's eyes go wide at the sight of his dark form, heard her gasp, and saw her instinctively step back into the open air behind her. V was already moving by the time she started to fall backwards down the stairwell. He was at her side, one hand gripping her arm and the other about her waist before she had traveled a foot through the air. He tugged her onto the landing and a few steps away from the stairs. He found she was breathing as hard as he was after the unexpected exertion that left his injuries throbbing.

"My God!" she gasped, clutching his arm. "What are you doing up here? Trying to give an old woman a heart attack?"

"Please, Madam," V said, catching his breath. "It was not my intention to frighten you. I'm afraid I didn't hear you ascend the stairs and you startled me. Are you alright?"

"I'm fine…I think," Helen replied. "Let me just sit down a minute."

V helped her over to the staircase leading to the second floor. She sat on the second step, and took several slow deep breaths. V gingerly sat beside her, studying her face for any signs of serious problems.

"Stop staring at me, William, I'll be fine," Helen said, her voice a bit sharp. "You never did answer me. What are you doing up here? You should be resting."

V flinched slightly on hearing the nickname and was silent for a few moments. He turned his covered face away from Helen and looked back to the window.

"I wanted to see the moon," he replied. "It seems a childish whim now, but I just wanted to see the night sky."

V could see Helen didn't think he was being entirely truthful with her about his reason for lurking around the window at midnight, but she didn't press the issue. Instead she started to pull herself to her feet. V stood and tried to help her.

"Now you stop that!" Helen scolded him. "I should be helping you, not the other way around. You're the one that's got a big zipper running down your front."

V deduced that he must have a long line of surgical staples on his abdomen for her to make that comparison. He waved away her concerned look. "There is no cause for concern. I feel quite alright, thank you."

"Nonsense!" Helen countered. "We're going to march down those stairs and you're going to take a seat in the kitchen while I fix us a cup of tea."

"Would you not rather go to bed, as I believe you were just headed in that direction?" V asked, with a tilt of his head. Helen scowled at him.

"Well, I'm wide awake now, aren't I?" she replied. "Let's go."

V escorted her down the flight of steps, timing his quick step on his sore leg with her step down. They walked to the kitchen where Helen set to filling the kettle with water and put it on the burner. A whoosh of flame and the water started to heat. She pulled out the tea, cups, saucers, sugar and milk. Once she had all these items arranged on the table, the water was heated. V sank into a chair, watching this neat flurry of activity with a creeping fatigue. He thanked her as she poured two cups.

V had just lifted the hood and taken a sip of the fragrant brew when Helen asked, "So when shall I get the chance to meet Evey?"

V froze with the cup halfway from his lips. He swallowed convulsively and nearly choked on his mouthful of tea. Helen merely peered at him across the rim of her own cup, taking a dainty sip. V finally swallowed the tea and simply stared at her. The tableau was interrupted by hurried footsteps and a frizzy-haired head poking into the kitchen.

"There you are!" said Dr. Sterling. "Are you trying to give an old man a heart attack?"

V cocked his head at the doctor while Helen laughed into her teacup.

_End of Chapter 8_

A/N: Back to Finch and/or Evey next, I believe. Things will probably start moving a bit faster after that.

Quotations:

_Sense and Sensibility_ by Jane Austen.


	9. Chapter 9

Dum Spiro, Spero

A/N: This chapter takes place directly after Chapter 7.

Disclaimer: These characters don't belong to me and I'm certainly not making any money from them.

_Chapter 9_

Finch found himself sorting through a stack of phone messages that numbered in the hundreds. The past three days had flown by in whirlwind of anxious calls from all quarters. The chief superintendents of the various police stations called Finch with grim statistics on the crime rates in their regions and to report on the lack of manpower in the police force. Council members called him to make requests for police personnel to shore up the protection being offered by Fingermen. Jeremiah Cross called him to demand updates on the search for the High Chancellor and Creedy. These last calls had become increasingly hostile, with subtle insinuations that Cross was losing his patience with the Chief Inspector. Finch's ostensible ranking above Cross seemed to impress the Fingerman less every time he called.

Finch almost welcomed the calls from Dascombe after all the other ones. The media manager was far more concerned with projecting the appearance of government control than actually enforcing it. Given the inability of his reporters to go out without risking life and limb, he had resorted to filming in-studio interviews will all sorts of so-called subject matter experts. The experts would testify to the transient nature of the current unrest, assuring any viewers that it would die off soon. Dascombe simply called to make reports on his spin coverage, assuring the Chief Inspector the situation was under control. He would occasionally inquire about Finch's activities, but didn't seem to place any importance on the answers. Finch now gave cursory replies to such questions.

Finch drummed his fingers on the desk while he contemplated the stack of messages. It was well into the night and the calls still kept coming. It was clear the current situation was highly unstable. Another point of view was needed. Finch raised his head to regard Dominic in the chair opposite of him. The younger man looked up from his paperwork.

"Let's go for a ride, Dominic," Finch said. The young detective had a curious expression, but didn't question his superior as he stood to put on his coat.

Walker Hotel, above the Shadow Gallery:

Dominic brought the car to a halt in the alley, directly across from the door Finch had exited a few days ago. The two men locked the car and walked over to the door. The lack of a handle or knob in the metal door momentarily stymied the detectives until Finch noticed the button on the wall next to it. The weak light cast by the streetlights made it difficult to see, but a small rusted sign near the button read "Press to Request Entry." Finch glanced at Dominic, shrugged and pressed it. Finch didn't hear anything. He pressed it again, with the same result.

"What if it doesn't work?" Dominic asked. "Or what if she's not there?"

Finch gave him a hangdog expression in response. The message was clear. _Don't go asking for trouble._

Dominic lapsed into silence, contenting himself with looking around the litter strewn alley. Finch rang the buzzer a third time. He glanced at his watch, making a note of seconds on the digital screen. A minute passed while the detectives waited. Finch was reaching for the buzzer again when the men heard a metallic clank and the door shuddered open a few inches. A shadowed form, standing back from the light, studied them.

"What do you want?" Came a feminine voice that Finch recognized.

"Ms. Hammond, I'd like to speak with you if that's possible," Finch replied. The door opened another few inches, and Evey's face appeared in the lamplight as she stepped up to the opening. Finch saw Dominic blink in surprise at Evey's shorn head.

"I don't remember leaving an open invitation to visit, Inspector," Evey said evenly, eyeing Finch with caution. Her gaze hardened slightly when it landed on Dominic. The detective seemed uncomfortable with her evaluation.

"Do the police need an invitation, Miss?" the younger man said. Finch had to force himself not to sigh and roll his eyes. Dominic was a talented investigator, but it was moments like this that reminded Finch of the relative youth of his partner.

"Is this an official visit, then?" Evey asked. He shook his head slightly. As Evey looked at him expectantly, Finch found himself struggling to define his reasons for coming there. After fruitlessly casting about for the right words, he settled for simple ones.

"I just wanted to talk to you if that's alright," Finch finally said.

Evey seemed to read his uncertainty and sincerity. She flicked a glance over his shoulder to Dominic. Finch turned his head and saw the detective was regarding them both with an air of someone who is aware there is some subtext to the conversation he is missing. Finch immediately forgave him for his earlier faux pas, pleased to see the younger man was still using his observational skills. Evey's voice brought his attention back to her.

"You just want to talk?" She asked.

"Yes," Finch replied. "We can go somewhere else, if you like, or even stand out here. Just talk."

She pinned them with another slightly unnerving assessment. Finch suddenly recalled the first impression he had of her in the Underground station. Her initial silence, the upward tilt of her chin when his gaze had flicked to V laid out on the bier, then the quiet firmness in her demeanor. There wasn't a single trace of the fear which seemed to lurk behind her eyes in every photo in her police file. While Finch was reflecting on this change, Evey seemed to come to a decision.

"Would you gentlemen care for a cup of tea?" she asked, holding the door open. Finch felt a smile ghost across his face at this show of trust. He glanced at Dominic to make sure he was following and stepped into the dark building.

The lobby was still dirty and cluttered, though a trail of footsteps now wound their way in the dust on the marbled floor. Evey led the men to the old lift. The doors opened immediately when she pressed the down button. The ride down was quiet. Finch saw Dominic was eyeing Evey with interest, taking in her changed appearance and charity shop clothing. He wondered if the young detective saw the more profound changes in the young woman. Evey ignored their scrutiny, calmly stepping off the lift when it arrived in the basement without waiting to see if they were following. They passed through a heavy wooden door into the Shadow Gallery.

"Wow," Dominic breathed beside Finch as he beheld the extraordinary sight before him. Finch nodded, struck anew by this second glimpse of what seemed to be a magical vault filled with forbidden wonders. Every place contained something new that would capture his attention. Evey cleared her throat pointedly.

"The kitchen is this way, gentlemen," she said. Finch thought he could detect a hint of amusement in her countenance. The men followed her into kitchen, still looking around as Evey put on the kettle. Finch and Dominic stood awkwardly around the table as she finished and turned back to them. Finch swallowed and tried to sort his thoughts. He noticed Dominic was studying Evey once again.

"Ms. Hammond, I don't believe you've been introduced to my associate," Finch said with a nod toward Dominic. "This is Detective Sergeant Dominic Stone."

"I suppose our last meeting was too brief for introductions," Evey said, her hand passing over the scar near her hairline. Dominic had the grace to appear somewhat contrite.

"Yeah, sorry about that," he said. "No hard feelings, eh? Just a reaction to getting a face full of pepper spray. I couldn't even see who it was at the time."

"Things happened as they should have, Detective," Evey replied. "You shouldn't be sorry about it."

There it was again. Another odd statement coming from this young woman, rather like some of the things she had said to Finch on the roof. He could hear echoes of the former occupant of the Shadow Gallery in her words. The thought of V brought Finch back around to his purpose in coming.

"Ms. Hammond, this might sound a little strange but I was wondering if Codename V ever spoke to you about what was supposed to happen after the 5th of November," Finch said slowly, the words seeming to lay heavy in the air after they were spoken. Evey's expression seemed to flicker briefly as the inspector spoke, but the change was too brief for the inspector to categorize. She turned away from him and busied herself with the boiling kettle of water. When she spoke, the men had to strain to hear her.

"His name is V," she said. Finch noted the use of the present tense.

"Yes, V. I was wondering if V had mentioned anything…" Finch trailed off, uncertain of what he was really asking. Evey finished making the tea and set it on the table, along with three cups. Finch wondered if she had heard him. An open tin of biscuits completed the setting and Evey sank into a chair. After a moment, Finch and Dominic followed suit. Evey spoke as she poured the tea.

"Like what?" she finally said. "A detailed set of instructions on how to topple the remaining government? For conducting anarchy?"

Finch suddenly felt rather foolish. A very small part of him had hoped that something just like that existed. A step-by-step method for ridding the chaos from the city. Evey finished pouring and picked up her cup. She regarded him steadily over the rim as she sipped. Finch ran his fingers over his cup while he considered the rhetorical questions. Dominic reached for a biscuit and dunked it into his tea while the silence grew. Finch sighed.

"I'm just trying to get a feel for whether he had a plan beyond blowing up Parliament," he said. "What is happening right now isn't going to work in the long run. Since I can only assume you spent more time with him than anyone else it's not out of the realm of reason to think you might have some ideas."

Evey bristled a little at his tone, but smoothed out her expression. She said, "Mr. Finch, the idea is that people will learn to lead themselves."

"You and I both know it's not that simple," Finch shot back. "Sooner or later someone's going to get wind that Sutler and Creedy are dead. When that happens it'll be the last man standing with the most guns that wins."

Evey sat back in her chair but didn't reply. Finch continued to speak, the thoughts organizing themselves as his words came to him.

"If the people are to truly have a chance at succeeding where V left off, they need some guidance," Finch said. "There's no method to the madness right now. People are attacking emergency service workers, burning their own homes and victimizing their neighbors."

Dominic stood and placed his cup in the sink. Evey glanced at him before turning her attention back to Finch. Dominic stayed on his feet and looked around the kitchen while the others spoke.

"V never mentioned anything specific about times past the 5th," she told Finch. "He seemed to think the people would take matters into their own hands. I'm not sure how I can help you."

"V is gone, Evey," Finch snapped, frustration at her calm demeanor getting the better of him. "He's left us holding the bag. I'm just looking for a little help here before the city implodes around us."

Evey started to reply when she caught movement out of the corner of her eye. She turned and saw Dominic turning the flowered apron over in his hands. She immediately jumped up from the table and stalked over to him. She snatched the apron out of his hands and gave him a look that would have frozen the Thames solid. Dominic looked at Finch with confusion while Evey carefully folded the apron and placed it reverently back on the rack. Finch merely raised an eyebrow.

"It's not nice to touch things that don't belong to you," Evey said coolly. Finch noted that she seemed to be struggling with various emotions as her hands smoothed over the apron.

"I think it's time you left," she said, turning to face them with a deliberately emotionless expression. "I'm sorry I couldn't be of more help to you, Mr. Finch."

"Please, Ms. Hammond, just hear me out…" Finch said imploringly. She continued to look at him with that flat gaze.

"I don't think I can be of help to you," she repeated. "Please go."

She wouldn't meet his stare directly. Her eyes were focused on a point above his head and she seemed unnaturally calm. Finch found himself suddenly angry at her transition from defiant rebel to wounded survivor. His words tumbled out without forethought as he stood from the table.

"A few nights ago you stood on the roof here and told me I should step in to help lead the government," Finch ground out. "And now you stand there and refuse to do anything? What would he think?"

The barb hit its mark. Evey flinched and glared at Finch with eyes that shone with sudden tears and anger. She tried to speak, but her words choked off. After taking a few deep breaths, she regained her voice.

"Don't talk about things you don't understand," she whispered with startling vehemence. Finch met her angry stare with one of his own.

"I understand you're hiding down here," he said. "What good is his sacrifice if things go back to the way they were?"

Evey looked away at that, clenching her fists. She swallowed thickly, but couldn't seem to answer Finch. In that moment Finch saw with breathtaking clarity why his words were having such a profound effect on her. Evey Hammond had been in love with V. He suddenly felt ashamed of his verbal attack.

"Look…your name is linked with his by the people," Finch continued in a softer tone. "They will listen to you if you speak to them."

Evey wouldn't look at him. Finch sighed, suddenly feeling ten years older. Dominic, forgotten during the confrontation, caught Finch's eye. He tilted his head in inquiry. Finch grimaced and jerked his head toward the doorway of the kitchen. Dominic headed for the door. Finch stepped around the table and halted an arm's length away from her. The muscles in her jaw jumped, but she didn't acknowledge his presence beyond the twitch.

"Please just think about what I said," Finch said quietly. He lifted a hand as though to touch her shoulder but arrested it in mid-motion. After a moment, he dropped it and turned to leave the room. Evey reached out and grabbed his sleeve as he took a step. He turned back to her.

"I will," she whispered. Her face showed equal measures of pain, shame and truth. Finch found himself breathless for a moment at the raw intensity of her grief. He managed a nod and then strode from the kitchen. Dominic was waiting by the wooden door. He took one look at Finch's face and didn't ask any questions. The ride back to headquarters was silent.

_End of Chapter 9_

A/N: Apologies for the delay in getting this chapter out. It was a busy weekend, with the holiday and all. I made up the name of the building that the Shadow Gallery is under. I don't remember seeing it anywhere, but if the building has a canon name I would appreciate a heads-up and I'll edit the chapter accordingly.


	10. Chapter 10

Dum Spiro, Spero

Disclaimer: These characters don't belong to me and I'm certainly not making any money from them.

_Chapter 10_

The Shadow Gallery

Evey sank back into the chair after Finch left. Her half-empty cup of tea sat forgotten as she turned over the detective's words in her mind. Finch's visit, right on the heels of her discoveries in the lower level of the Shadow Gallery, had Evey reconsidering her actions for the past few days. Or her lack of actions. The grief still felt too near to Evey, despite her earlier resolve to start using the gifts V had given her. It was too soon.

_It will never not hurt_, came the inner voice Evey associated with V. _Inaction rationalized by grief is still inaction. _

This thought brought Evey back out of the chair and set her to pacing. Thoughts of V, of Finch, of her personal responsibilities chased themselves around in her mind. She ran her hand over her close-cropped head as she paced. The feel of the shorn locks, barely long enough to feel soft instead of stubbly, was centering. The tempo of Evey's pacing slowed until she eventually came to a stop back at her chair.

Evey found herself staring at a container of milk sitting on the counter. She had left it out when she made the tea. Evey had no idea how long she'd been ruminating, but the small quantity seen in the clear jug made Evey suddenly realize she needed to do some shopping for perishable items. It was small in the grand scheme of things, but it took on a sudden urgency for Evey. Going to the grocery would feel like a step back into the real world. After putting the milk away, Evey grabbed a set of keys and a coat. She took the lift to the lobby.

Evey belatedly realized that it was far too early to go to the supermarket once she passed through the outside door. The sun hadn't risen yet, though there was a chilly stillness in the air that marked the pre-dawn. Rather than sit in the Gallery for the next few hours she set off for the supermarket anyway, resolving to walk until her thoughts fell quiet.

Later, Evey stood in line for the checkout. The grocery, one of the few still open in the area since November 5th, was packed. Evey had been waiting for 40 minutes to pay for her items, and she was twelve people from the front of the queue. Boredom had caused her to start eavesdropping on the conversations around her. The two elderly women in line behind her held her attention.

"Things are only going to get worse, you mark my words," said one old woman with a high voice. "Look at this now. I imagine in a week we'll be lucky if you can find any food around. And these prices! You'll have to sell a kidney to buy bread."

"Oh, don't go on so," said the second woman, her voice raspy counterpoint to her companion's reedy voice. "Once they find the Chancellor it will all simmer down."

"You believe that if you want, Judith," sniffed the first woman. "I think it's rather foolish of you, but that's never stopped you before."

"I'll remind you that it was you who asked me to drive you here, dear sister," replied Judith with mild reproach. "Some of us were smart enough to stock up before the 5th, Mary."

"Oh, don't act as if you're some kind of psychic," Mary said. "As if you don't always do your shopping at the beginning of the month anyway."

Judith merely harrumphed in response. Evey felt a faint grin tugging the corners of her mouth at the squabbling of the senior siblings. Everyone in the line shuffled forward a few steps as the cashier finished checking out the lead person. Mary's next words caused the small smile to fade.

"Well, I just hope they start cracking down again soon," she said. "A woman can't walk the streets right now with worrying. You heard what happened to Ellen Blackwell, didn't you?"

"What's that?" replied Judith.

"She was robbed and raped in her own home by some young hooligans," Mary said.

"My God," gasped Judith. "She must be in her sixties!"

"They said it was payment for protection since the police won't go into the neighborhood right now. She refused to give them any money so they forced their way in. Afterwards she tried to call the police, but she only got an answering service. She couldn't even get an ambulance to go out there," Mary continued. Judith made sounds of commiseration as the line moved forward another few feet.

"I heard that some people have been going around gathering up for some kind of protest at the Yard soon," Judith said. "Apparently they want the police to completely disband."

"That's just brainless," Mary replied with scorn. "Who will help those that can't protect themselves? I haven't seen that masked chap swooping down to rescue any little old ladies. Even the Fingermen are better than no order at all."

"Do you suppose he bought it when Parliament went up?" Judith asked. "I mean, there hasn't been a peep of the original since that night."

"If this is what he had in mind, I'd say good riddance," Mary replied. "It's all very well and good to go around blowing things up and killing people, but it takes real courage to put it all back together. He could have at least left us some directions or such."

Evey had stiffened at the mention of V. She had almost turned around, but Mary's last statements made her pause. A deep sigh came from one of the women.

"As much as I sometimes wish it would all go back to how it was before the Reclamation," Judith continued quietly. "I think we've all forgotten how to take care of ourselves. A little guidance wouldn't go amiss. However, I think the only guidance we'll get is at the point of a gun."

The women fell quiet. Other snatches of conversation floated Evey's way, but they were reduced to a buzzing in the wake of her busy thoughts. She couldn't put the conversation aside, even when the women proceeded to talk about more trivial matters. Evey made it to the checkout counter and mechanically paid for her items. Stuffing the change in her pocket and pulling the full plastic bags close, she left the store still preoccupied.

Evey made a beeline for the kitchen once she reached the Shadow Gallery. She hastily put the groceries away, and folded the plastic bags before setting it on a shelf. Indecision momentarily gripped her as she looked into the main Gallery. The moment passed when the women's conversation insistently pushed its way back into her thoughts. Evey strode out of the kitchen with new purpose and toward the door that would lead to the stairwell entrance.

The flight of stone steps blurred beneath her feet as she flew down the stairs and jerked open the door to the lower level. Evey immediately turned into the first room on the right. A flip of switches and bright light filled the costuming room. The lights caused a deep shadow from the brim of the hat to fall across the mask of the costumed mannequin. Evey halted her swift stride a few feet away from the dark figure. The black holes forming the eyes of the mask seemed to return her scrutiny.

"I think I understand now," Evey said aloud. The mask didn't move, but she fancied there was some subtle shift in the features of the grinning visage that felt like approval.

Sterling General Practice

V had excused himself from the kitchen after Helen's question, pleading exhaustion. Dr. Sterling had followed him back to the room, showing him the code to get back in. V stripped off his clothing including the hood and got back into the hospital bed. The doctor reattached the IV line and various monitoring electrodes. V refused the catheter. He assured the doctor he could manage the short walk to the facilities on the far side of the room quite well. Sterling quickly checked under the dressings to make sure nothing had been torn open during V's ambulatory adventure. Everything looked as it should. The doctor then left to go have a cup of tea with Helen.

"I would suggest that she and I both come back here and have a proper visit with you," Sterling commented with a grin as he left. "But you had the demeanor of a man fleeing the police."

Despite his claims of fatigue V found himself unable to fall back to sleep. The forced inactivity of the past few days made him feel restless. Dr. Sterling had administered a pain-killer when he re-inserted the IV, so the physical discomfort had faded to insignificance. It was mental turmoil that kept him from slumbering. Helen's simple question had struck at the heart of the flashes of the fevered dreams V could recall from his delirium. The specifics of the dreams were absent, but painted across the dreamscape had been the pervasive feelings of loss, duty, and faint hope. Evey's face was the most prominent image he saw. The recollection of her gently grasping the sides of his face and pulling him down for a kiss played over and over.

The warmth that filled his chest at that image evaporated with his next thought. Evey believed him to be dead. Uncertainty assailed V as he pondered whether it was better that way. After all, Evey was an intelligent and beautiful young woman. There was no reason to believe she would ultimately benefit from V's continued presence in her life. That she felt some affection for him was evident by her anxious behavior when he left to confront Creedy. But a sliver of doubt needled its way into V's consciousness. She had made no declaration of her feelings for him. Desire for him to continue living did not necessarily equate to love. V could not bear the thought of her pity if he should return only to have her declare her platonic affection for him.

There also remained the issue of V's purpose in life. In leaping from the train he had changed a script that was written two decades ago. V found himself standing on a flat plane of white paper and his quill was missing. The people had more use for a martyred hero than for a damaged romantic, and it would be unfair to rely on Evey to give him a new purpose. If all had gone according to plan, the people of London would carry on the idea represented by V. The man that gave life to the idea was unimportant in the scheme of things. This train of thought brought V back to the question of what to do now.

The sound of the door lock clicking open brought V out of his reverie. Dr. Sterling breezed through the door carrying a bundle in his hands. V sat up, giving the doctor his full attention.

"No, don't bother," the doctor said with a wave of his hand. "I just brought you some things to wear in case you decide to go wandering again. You seem stable enough so I'm going to stay with the missus tonight."

Sterling handed the clothing to him. V inclined his head in thanks.

"They're some of Jacob's clothes. He's close to your height, though not near the same size through the chest," Dr. Sterling said. "Fortunately these are loose on him. They should fit well enough."

V examined the black turtleneck and dark trousers. Dr. Sterling was correct; they would fit adequately. Dark blue boxer shorts, socks and a short-sleeved undershirt were also in the pile of clothing. He thanked the doctor and placed the clothes in a neat stack on the chair next to the bed. He turned back to Sterling to see him standing next to the bed giving him an unreadable look. V tilted his head in inquiry. Sterling took a deep breath.

"Lad," he began quietly. "Promise me you won't go running off again without saying goodbye."

V became very still at the statement. Sterling continued to look at him steadily.

"I know we didn't part on the best of terms last time," Sterling said. "But you should know that you are welcome here anytime. Helen would have my head if I didn't make that clear to you."

V found he had to swallow before he replied. "You may assure Mrs. Sterling that I understand."

"But you won't say yea or nay," Sterling said with a smile that didn't quite reach his eyes. "The word out there is that you're dead. Maybe it's time to lay down the sword and rest."

The doctor held V's gaze for another moment, then turned and left the room. V continued to lay awake long after the door clicked shut.

_End of Chapter 10_

A/N: This chapter took awhile because I became preoccupied writing the one after it, so that one should be out real soon. Also, it's looking like it will be the longest chapter yet. Next time, more V and Evey (in the same place!).


	11. Chapter 11

Dum Spiro, Spero

Disclaimer: These characters don't belong to me and I'm certainly not making any money from them.

_Chapter 11_

New Scotland Yard

There was a knock and a detective entered the Chief Inspector's office without waiting for an acknowledgement. Finch looked up from the papers on his desk, eyebrow raised in inquiry.

"Sir, we have a situation out front," said the detective urgently. "You had better come down quick."

"What is it, Harris?" Finch asked as he stood, adjusting his pistol holster and buttoning his jacket.

"Well…" Harris began hesitantly. "There are people gathered out there. A lot of people."

Finch gestured the man out the door of the office, following him down the hall as the detective continued to speak.

"They're not doing anything yet. Just standing around right now," Harris said. "Most of them are wearing those bloody costumes. They just keep saying they want to talk to you."

Finch's brow furrowed at the last sentence. They reached the foyer. Through the large windows Finch could see a thick wall of policemen facing toward the street. As the Chief Inspector reached the glass doors he could see the crowd beyond the policemen. A sea of black clothing and white masks met his gaze. Thousands, perhaps tens of thousands stood in the street at the front of New Scotland Yard. He paused at the doors, absorbing the tableau.

"Sir, I'm not sure I recommend you going out there," Harris said. "We're severely outnumbered here. If that crowd turns ugly there's no knowing what will happen."

"And if I don't go out there now, while they're still being polite?" Finch asked, with a sidelong glance. "And they start to lose their patience?"

Harris didn't answer. Finch looked back out at the crowd. "Harris, get me a bullhorn."

"Yes sir," Harris replied smartly, and hurried off to comply with Finch's request. Swift footsteps made Finch look behind him. Dominic strode up, a worried look upon his face.

"What's this all about?" he asked without preamble. Finch shrugged.

"I think I'm about to find out," the inspector replied.

"Do you think that's a good idea?" Dominic asked, casting a concerned look at Finch.

"Probably not," Finch said. "But I think ignoring them would be worse, don't you?"

Dominic scowled at that, but nodded anyway. Harris came rushing back up, bullhorn in hand. Finch took it from him and walked through one of the glass doors. Dominic and Harris followed on his heels. The line of policemen parted as the Chief Inspector stepped out onto the chilly sunlit steps. A harsh muttering rippled through the crowd at his appearance. Despite the cool breeze stirring up the air, the atmosphere felt stifling in front of the massive crowd. Finch was aware several uniformed policemen were edging farther down the steps, prepared to step in front of him if violence erupted. He brought the bullhorn up to his mouth and pressed the trigger.

"I was told you wanted to speak to me," Finch said as clearly as possible. Another hiss of whispering swept across the crowd before a man near the front spoke up.

"That's right!" the man said. Finch had to strain to make out his voice, muffled behind a mask. The man gestured to the uniformed police officers. "You in charge of this lot?"

"I am Chief Inspector Finch," he replied.

"Well, Chief Inspector Finch," the man said. "We're here to inform you that the services of the police are no longer needed."

A rumble of assent came from the crowd, punctuated by scattered yells. The crowd seemed to surge and eddy with the sudden energy triggered by the man's bold statement. Finch could sense the uniformed officers pressing closer, their bodies tightening up with the rush of adrenaline. A single misstep here would cause a riot.

"What do you mean?" Finch asked. "Who will protect the citizens if there are no police?"

"The only people we need protection from are the police," shouted a woman's voice from a different part of the crowd. "The police and the Fingermen!"

The crowd roared at this statement, throwing fists into the air defiantly. Most of the police officers had drawn their batons. They were lifted in readiness as the people got more excited. The crowd lapsed back into angry grumbling after a few minutes. Finch swallowed and raised the bullhorn again.

"Right now the police are only concerned with people who are breaking the law," Finch said. "People who are harming other people or destroying property."

"That's bollocks!" a man called out from the middle of the crowd. "My wife was arrested and beaten by the police for taking food from an abandoned store."

More shouts came from crowd, detailing various injustices suffered at the hands of the police and the Fingermen. So many voices were calling out that Finch couldn't make any of them out clearly. The crowd started to edge forward and the threat of violence hung heavy in the air. Finch raised his hands, trying to gesture for quiet.

"Please," Finch yelled. "Please just listen to me for a moment."

The noise level dipped slightly, but only just. Finch would have to shout into the bullhorn to be heard.

"Things are very uncertain right now," he began. "We're doing the best we can. We need your help if we're to get through this time."

As soon as the words left his mouth, Finch knew they were the wrong ones. The crowd roared and advanced again. They were now against the concrete barriers in a line at the base of the steps. People in the front were gesticulating and Finch could hear some phrases about "never again!" and "and make it easy for you?" The police officers took a step forward, tightening up the row. Dominic stepped up close to Finch, his hand on his pistol.

Suddenly a petite figure clad in a costume climbed over one of the barriers. Several officers rushed forward to confront the person. The crowd roiled angrily and pressed against the barriers. The figure held up its hands as the policemen surrounded it. The police took the figure's arms and started to drag it back to towards the barrier. The person called out over its shoulder to the Chief Inspector.

"Maybe they'll listen to someone else, Mr. Finch?"

Finch felt his jaw drop as he recognized Evey Hammond's voice. He rushed forward and ordered the officers to release her. She straightened the sleeves of her tunic after they let her go.

"Are you willing to try, Ms. Hammond?" Finch asked, gesturing toward the crowd with the bullhorn. The black hat and Guy Fawkes mask tilted forward as she nodded. She stepped over to Finch's previous spot, followed closely by the Chief Inspector. Police and crowd alike were both bewildered by this change of events. Evey removed the hat, wig and mask and handed them to Dominic before taking the bullhorn from Finch. The crowd quieted when she lifted it to speak.

Shadow Gallery - Two Hours Earlier

Evey had spent the morning putting the finishing touches on her modification of one of the spare costumes. Given the marked discrepancy in height between her and V, the cloak had to be shortened significantly. The difference in measurements made modification of the rest of the existing costume impractical. Instead, she had sewn a simple black tunic and set of trousers the day before. Her inexperience with the tailoring arts made it a time-consuming process, but the black cloth helped to hide any minor imperfections. Boots and leather gloves had been purchased earlier during a trip above ground. The hat, wig, and mask could be used without modification.

With a last check of the length, Evey hung up the finished cloak on a hook on the wall of the costuming room. She put away all the tools she had used and turned off the lights as she left the room. Her footsteps echoed faintly in the circular center of the lower level of the Gallery. She angled over into the communications room. The monitors were already illuminated when she entered. A soft murmur of voices came from the speakers. Evey had discovered that people were starting to broadcast on various FM frequencies using illicit radio transmitters. Monitoring these frequencies was an excellent way to keep up on general attitude of the populace.

Something significant was happening though. The monitors showed groups dressed in V costumes gathering at pubs, cafes, even private homes. Gatherings like these were not that unusual of late, but it was the timely concentration of the groups that was curious. Evey had been skipping along the radio band, seeing if she could get some clue as to what was about to happen. It was right in the middle of the FM band, just 2/10ths of a frequency below the government's official frequency that she found the information.

People were planning to march on New Scotland Yard and demand the disbandment of the police. At noon they would all gather and demand to speak to the head of the Metropolitan Police Force, who just happened to be Eric Finch. The radio speaker, becoming louder and more impassioned by the minute, spoke of the injustices perpetrated by the police force on the populace. The Fingermen were out of reach, guarding the compounds of the Norsefire officials, so the police were the next best thing. Evey noted that the man on the radio gave no specific course of action should the head of the police refuse, but the implication of physical violence hung over the monologue. Evey had an uncomfortable flash back to Prothero's wandering vitriolic rants. The speaker ended the speech with a call for marchers.

Evey checked the clock, noting it was an hour until noon. She turned the volume down on the speakers and gave the monitors once last glance before leaving the room. They showed the groups of people were multiplying. Evey strode back to the costuming room. The various pieces of the costume she had made were laid out on one of the long workbenches, in the same arrangement as they would be worn on the body. The mask was one of the sturdy plastic spares. Evey picked it up and turned it over in her hands thoughtfully. She looked up at the costumed mannequin standing in front of the wall.

"Time to rejoin the world?" she asked aloud. She began pulling on the pieces of the costume lying on the workbench. "I think so."

Nearly an hour later Evey approached the fringes of the large crowd gathered in front of New Scotland Yard. The vast majority of the protesters were costumed like Evey. She felt an unexpected tightness in her throat at the sea of masks that flowed and eddied in front of her. Taking a deep breath to steady herself she started to work her way through the crowd. The people seemed to part and ripple around her like water around a smooth stone in a river. A few minutes later she arrived at the waist-high concrete barriers in front of the steps of the Yard.

A line of uniformed police officers stood between the restless assembly and the front of the building. Several men in suits stood near the glass doors marking the entrance. Periodically someone in the crowd would shout to the men, demanding to see the head of the Met. The men in suits conferred for several moments before one of them disappeared into the building. Minutes later, Chief Inspector Finch came out to address the people. The throng became more agitated as he spoke. Evey found herself pressed against the barricade as people moved forward.

"We need your help if we're to get through this time," Finch said, and Evey was crushed against the barrier as the crowd roared and shouted. She found herself instinctively climbing over the concrete divider, first to escape the crowd. But once she made it over, and a pack of policemen swarmed down on her, Evey felt compelled to speak. Finch's response would have been comical had the situation not been so serious. He urged her over to his previous spot and handed her the bullhorn after she removed the coverings on her face and head. Dominic took the items from her hands, then stepped back to flank her on one side. Finch stood at the other shoulder. Silence fell on the crowd when she lifted the bullhorn.

"My name is Evey Hammond," she said. An explosion of furious whispering met her simple statement. "Will you let me speak to you?"

Several affirmative answers were called out from the crowd. Evey paused a moment to collect her thoughts. She took a deep breath and depressed the trigger on the bullhorn again.

"I was listening to the radio today and heard about this march," she said. "The man on the radio said we were now living in a state of anarchy; that institutions like the police force were no longer needed."

Evey hesitated a beat before saying the next sentence. The people seemed to lean forward in anticipation of her words.

"I'm here to tell you he was wrong," she said firmly. Shocked exclamations met her pronouncement. One man near the front called out loudly.

"You telling us we've got to just swallow what they're feeding us?" he demanded. "Just eat it up and ask for seconds?"

"No, I'm telling you this isn't anarchy," Evey replied. She took a step down, closer to the speaker. "These past days have been unchecked chaos. Your family, your friends, your neighbors, the people you care about…would you feel comfortable letting them walk alone at night right now?"

A thick silence fell after her question. Evey looked into the masks in the crowd, willing the wearers to hear what she was saying.

"Anarchy means without leaders, not without order," she continued. "It's a state of voluntary order, not taking what you want or hurting others just for the hell of it. It requires the ultimate personal responsibility."

Evey gestured toward the man in the crowd that had called out. "Are you prepared to take on that responsibility? To prevent criminals from terrorizing your family? To put out fires in your neighborhood? To help heal the sick and wounded? To make sure food is being distributed?"

She paused again, to let them consider her words. She then said, "I can't tell you what you should do here today. That is your own decision. But you should consider the responsibilities you will take upon yourselves."

Evey turned back to hand the bullhorn to Finch. Several cries from the crowd distracted her before she completed the exchange.

"Where's V?"

"What did he say?"

"V should tell us what to do!"

"Where's V?"

Evey's hand convulsively tightened, nearly cracking the plastic grip of the bullhorn. She turned back to the mass, now chanting "Where's V?" She had to clear her throat before speaking.

"You wish to know where V is?" she asked. A roar sounded in reply. "You need only to look around."

Confusion met her answer. Costumed figures were turning to regard each other, clearly puzzled.

"He is here today," she continued, voice gaining strength. "He is all around, in all of you. V is all of us."

Evey felt Finch's hand come to rest on her shoulder. He squeezed lightly. Evey looked back to him, holding his serious gaze. She gave a small nod of thanks. The moment was broken when someone else shouted from the throng.

"If we don't bust up these Yardies now, then they'll just be a waiting army for Sutler and Creedy," claimed the male voice. "I say we end it now."

The babble of voices increased exponentially at that assertion. Evey found herself speaking before she really considered her words.

"Sutler and Creedy are dead," she shouted. Shocked calm washed over the crowd momentarily, before a wave of voices blasted at her. Finch's hand on her shoulder tightened almost painfully. The police officers were turning to one another, too astonished to keep formation at this extraordinary proclamation. The tumult was so great that Evey saw the disturbance in the center of the mass too late to react.

The sunlight glinted off the silver pistol as it pointed at her. A bright flash, the pistol bucked upwards, and a fiery pain ripped into Evey's side. She heard Finch grunt behind her and then she was falling. The stone steps seemed to rush up at her and she struck them painfully. Chaos erupted with the sound of the pistol's sharp report.

Sterling General Practice – Two hours earlier

"People like you would put me out of business," Dr. Sterling said as he removed another surgical staple from V's abdomen. "They would just stay home for a few days, rest up a bit, and then go on back to work."

"I am sure skills such as yours will always be valued, Doctor," V replied politely. Sterling merely gave him a wry look while dropping the staple into a plastic sharps container.

"I see my clever attempt at engaging you in a conversation as a means of distraction has failed," the doctor noted. He pulled out another staple. "You were supposed to argue with me about the likelihood of there being other people like you."

"My apologies," V said, a hint of humor in his tone. "Clearly my convalescence has had an adverse effect on my ability to spot conversational cues."

"Take heart," said Helen from across the room by a supply cabinet. "At least he didn't try to tell you that dreadful story about the night the busload of dancing girls came in the ER from that double-decker accident."

"Hey!" Sterling exclaimed, pointing the staple removal tool at Helen. "Every word of that story is true and you know it."

"I never said it was false," Helen replied airily. "Merely that it was dreadful."

V watched this verbal exchange with the same keen interest he always felt when observing the interplay between the Sterlings. He often wondered how the interest and affection so apparent between them could have been sustained for forty-plus years of marriage. The plays, novels, and movies that made up the majority of V's understanding of human relationships usually dealt with the thrill of first meetings and immediate infatuations, or the pining of silent unrequited love. Long-lasting unshakable unions such as the Sterling's were sorely lacking in literature and film. V supposed this was because they made for poor drama.

Dr. Sterling removed the last staple and placed it in the container. He then began to apply sterile wound strips over the abdominal incision, covering the tiny holes left by the staples. "If we'd left these in another day I think the skin would have started growing over them."

"Then I thank you for removing them today," V said. Dr. Sterling laughed.

"I think he's feeling better, Helen," the doctor said. He finished applying the strips and cleaned up the supplies from the staple removal procedure. V pulled the covers up to his chest.

"That's good," Helen said, stepping over to the bed with a shoebox in her hands. "I have a surprise for you, William."

"Yes, Madam?" V inquired.

"Well, go on," Helen said, handing V the plain brown box. "Open it up."

V pulled the lid off. Inside the box, nestled among crumpled sheets of tissue paper, was the preserved Scarlet Carson rose. V reached down with a slightly trembling hand to touch the rose gently. It had a strange texture from the matte sealant. Dr. Sterling quietly left the bedside to dispose of the refuse from the procedure and to give V a moment to compose himself. Helen watched him sympathetically.

"You were clutching it as though your life depended on it when you showed up here," she said softly to V. "It was the least I could do."

"You have my sincerest thanks, Mrs. Sterling," V said in a raspy voice. He cleared his throat and quickly replaced the lid. "You both do. There is no way I could ever hope to repay your generosity."

Dr. Sterling walked up to stand at Helen's shoulder. He looked at V seriously before speaking.

"What you've done for England in the past year far and away pays for any kindnesses from us," he said. Helen echoed the sentiment. V dropped his eyes to the box in his lap.

"We'll leave you to rest up, lad," Sterling said. The two bid V good bye and left the room. V contemplated the plain box before he gently set it on the bedside table. He swung his feet around and stood beside the bed. The IV line and monitoring electrodes had all been removed earlier that morning. A quick visual inspection of his body revealed new pink skin covering the bullet wounds. V touched the skin gingerly, pleased with the progress of his healing. He pulled on the clothes that Dr. Sterling had left.

V heard the code being keyed into the electronic lock on the door. He hastily pulled the hood over his head and was facing the door with his bare hands clasped behind his back when it clicked open. A young man, perhaps in his late teens, slipped into the room and quickly shut the door behind him. When he turned away from the door to face the room, and saw the black-hooded form of V regarding him, he jumped slightly. V merely tipped his head to the side a fraction of an inch. The young man seemed to gather his nerve before speaking.

"I know who you are," he said in a rush. He swallowed thickly, his brown eyes wide underneath a shaggy mop of dark hair.

"Then you have me at a disadvantage," V replied. "As I cannot make the same claim."

"I'm Tommy," he said, then cleared his throat and continued in a deeper voice. "Er, I mean Thomas. Thomas Sterling."

Tommy strode forward, emboldened by V's calm demeanor, and stuck out his hand to shake. V inclined his head politely, but made no move to take the proffered hand. He also pointedly did not offer his own name in return. After an awkward moment Tommy dropped his hand to his side.

"I presume you are one of Dr. Sterling's grandchildren?" V said, his intonation making it clear he was asking a question.

"Yeah. There's me, and Jacob and Sarah," Tommy replied. "We've lived here ever since Mum and Dad were taken away by the Fingermen."

"I'm sorry," V said, sympathy in his voice. Tommy looked at the floor before responding.

"Don't be," he said. "Honestly, I don't remember them all that well. Jake and Sarah are older. They miss them more."

Tommy seemed to fall into a reverie after that statement. V gently cleared his throat.

"Much as I am enjoying our introduction," V said. "Would you care to explain why you slipped in here, against the orders of your grandparents?"

Tommy looked up at V. His eyes burned with a sudden passion.

"I'm here to ask you to come to a rally," Tommy said. V's brow creased at this statement, but his response was hidden by the black cloth covering his face. Tommy seemed to take his silence as permission to continue.

"There's a bunch of people going to march to the Yard at noon today," he said, words spilling out in a rush. "They're going to tell the cops they're no longer needed. I figured you could come and encourage us…"

Tommy's voice trailed off. V considered the earnest young man carefully before replying.

" 'Singular indeed that the people should be writhing under oppression and injury,' " said V. " 'And yet not one among them to be found, to raise the voice of complaint.' "

"I'm sorry?" Tommy said with a puzzled expression.

"I apologize, it was a poor attempt at irony," V replied, further confusing the young man. "It sounds to me as though you have courage enough for the task ahead."

"Look, you don't have to say anything or even let people know who you are," Tommy entreated. "I think if he ever finds out it would make Grandfather feel better if he knew you were there with me."

V spoke after a long pause. "Perhaps it would be good to take in the air."

Tommy sighed with relief.

"That's great," Tommy said. "Um, look I need to run and get my costume. I'll be back in a few minutes. We can take the moped!"

Tommy dashed from the room; V watched him go with a bemused air. He walked over to the plastic container against the wall. Boots and gloves were pulled from the box and put on. The wig followed in short order, after V pulled off the hood. He hesitated as he pulled out the cloak. The garment was clean, but still riddled with bullet holes. The mask also still bore the signs of the encounter in Victoria Station. V traced the bullet gouges on the surface of the mask. The uncertainty that had assailed him in previous days returned full force. To put the mask on again was a simple thing, but it carried with it the whole of V's identity of the past twenty years. An identity that V was no longer sure fit. It was a simple thing, to put on that mask; as simple as it was irrevocable.

But the mask in his hands was not the same as it had been before Victoria Station. Perhaps it was possible to change an identity crafted over two decades. V decisively brought the mask up to his face, tying the straps snugly. The cloak was thrown across his shoulders with the same firmness. His hat capped the ensemble. Tommy entered the room just as V was settling the hat on his head.

"Ready?" he asked V. The young man's eyes widened as V turned around to face him. Tommy held a mask, hat and wig in his hands. A cloak was already settled on his shoulders.

"Lead on," V replied.

Tommy and V left the moped several blocks away from New Scotland Yard. The crowds were becoming thicker as they approached their destination. V found himself mirrored in all the faces around him. Some people stared curiously at V's haggard appearance, but he ducked past them. Tommy followed in his wake. They arrived near the rear of the large gathering in front of New Scotland Yard. V found he had to restrain a feeling of claustrophobia at the thick press of bodies. The feeling worsened when Finch began to speak to the restless throng. People pushed and shoved insistently as emotions ran high.

Despite his greater-than-average height, V couldn't see the immediate cause of Finch's sudden descent down the steps over the forest of black hats. When Evey mounted the steps in Finch's place, V found his breath stolen away. Even over the distance that separated them her beauty moved him. To see her stepping into the role of teacher and creator of order, shook V to the core. It was only by sheer luck that V noticed the man about thirty feet in front of him.

The man wore a costume, like all the others in the crowd. What made him stand out was the marked lack of response he exhibited to Evey's speech. The man raised his hand to the side of his head. V could see a glint of light flash off the golden metal of the communication device in the man's hand. Only members of the Norsefire government carried such devices. V started to push his way toward the man. The Fingerman, as V was now convinced that's what the man was, put the communication device into his pocket. He then drew a silver pistol from a holster in his waist, and aimed it toward the steps. V began violently tossing aside the people between him and the Fingerman.

The pistol fired before V reached the man. People screamed and tried to run away from the gunman. Some reached out to grab the Fingerman, and he turned and fired at them. Bodies fell around the man, and he turned to aim at toward the steps again. Just as his finger was tightening on the trigger V clamped down on his wrist with his left hand, crushing it mercilessly. The pistol fell to the pavement. He jerked the Fingerman around and started to strike him in the face. There was none of the deadly elegance that usually characterized V's fighting style. The blows were savage and brutally effective. The mask shattered on the first blow. The second, third and fourth blows drove the man to his knees. The fifth blow broke his neck. V dropped the limp body to the ground.

V turned back toward the stone steps. His gaze locked with Evey's and his breath left him once again.

Evey

Evey struck the stone steps, followed shortly by Finch. He threw himself over her, trying to shield her body with his own. Dominic scrambled down a few steps and also placed himself in front of Evey. His pistol was in his hand. The two lines of police officers collapsed toward the fallen trio, swarming over them. Evey was aware of a great confusion of bodies as heat and pain spread down her left side. Finch was pressing her into the cold stone, vocally urging her to stay down. Dominic faced the now-fleeing crowd, one hand on Evey's shoulder and the other holding his Glock.

Evey tried to sit up, to see what was happening, but the men kept her from rising. She tried to look past the forest of bodies between her and the crowd of people. It was all a blur of dark clad forms rushing to get away from the shooter and the advancing line of policemen. Evey almost turned away when a gap suddenly appeared in the mass of moving people. Time seemed to slow down and she saw the scene with a hyper-realism that magnified all the details.

She saw a tall costumed figure in the middle of the street gripping the wrist of a man on his knees. The kneeling figure was beaten bloody, his free arm weakly trying to fend off his attacker. The standing man savagely struck him in the face and Evey could see the man's head turn at an unnatural angle from the force of the blow. The dead man fell limply to the ground as the other man released his arm. The standing figure turned his masked face toward Evey. He seemed to look right at her.

Evey bit back a cry at the minor imperfections she saw on the mask's surface, barely perceptible at this distance. The cloak swayed sideways from the force of the man's turn and she could see daylight through several small holes in the fabric of the garment. Evey's mouth formed the name "V" as she stretched a hand toward the figure. His own hand rose toward her across the distance.

Their tenuous connection was broken when the gap was closed by more advancing policemen. Evey found herself lifted and carried toward the building. She tried to push the hands away, tried to fight them off so she could look again. Their grip was implacable and Evey was whisked away from the figure in the street.

V

V felt his hand rise of its own volition, stretching toward Evey. The moment of shared connection was broken when their gaze was interrupted by a flood of policemen moving into the street. Evey was gathered up and carried away. V took a step toward the building, his intentions unclear even to himself. Tommy ran up to his side and grasped his arm. Faintly, through the curious silence that had enveloped him, V heard the young man urging him to flee from the line of police. V looked at him with scant comprehension, and then looked back toward the steps. Evey was gone.

V gave in to the insistent young man's tugging on his arm and turned to leave.

_End of Chapter 11_

A/N: Some more borrowings from the GN in this chapter. As always, thank you for all the reviews and I want to thank my wonderful betas as well!

A/N2: I'm a little puzzled about Finch's actual title. In the movie he's called Chief Inspector, though the impression I get is that he should really be the Chief Constable (or Commissioner) since he seems to be the head of the police. The novelization implies that these titles were abolished when the new regime came to power (but then Dominic calls him Chief and Inspector). So, I've kept the title as Chief Inspector for continuity, but he's the head honcho for the Metropolitan Police Force here.

Quotation:

Abraham Lincoln, remarks in the Illinois legislature, January 11, 1837.—The Collected Works of Abraham Lincoln, ed. Roy P. Basler, vol. 1, p. 65 (1953).


	12. Author's note

Author's Note:

So…it's been awhile, hasn't it? I still receive the occasional review for this story and I'm very grateful for that. In fact, I cannot express how much I appreciate all the kind reviews I got for this story. You guys rock.

I left everyone at a terrible cliffhanger. It wasn't very nice of me and I'm sorry. I found at the time that I had written myself into a bit of a corner. Every time I went to write the next chapter I kept getting stuck at some bit or another, because something just felt off about it. I decided to lay it down for a while and see if I could resolve the conflict with the Muse. After a couple of months I still hadn't quite fixed it and I had some changes in my life that started to suck up most of my free time. That is the reason this fic has sat so long without an update.

I am still pretty busy right now, and as is the way of things, new stories have captured my attention. This fic will not remain unfinished. Someday I will start writing it again. It's just on hiatus at the moment.

Thank you all for your generous encouragement and critiques.


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